


And All the King's Men

by Afterstory (poetic_devices)



Series: False Kings [2]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Blood and Injury, Drama, F/M, Humor, M/M, Post-Canon, sort of reincarnation but not quite?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-07
Updated: 2017-06-22
Packaged: 2018-07-18 01:04:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 28,327
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7293205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poetic_devices/pseuds/Afterstory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Merlin has been through the jaws of hell and back; he's more than ready to reunite with his old friends.<br/>But the return of Arthur Pendragon does not mean an end to the suffering.</p><p>
  <i>“To be reborn and grow up with all the memories fading away like it was all just a bad dream?” Merlin snarls under his breath, ready to snap like a rubber band pulled taut. “Of course that couldn’t be me. Because life just isn’t fair. It isn’t; destiny needed me toughened up with centuries of suffering and a thousand years of patience to my name.”</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stuff of Nightmares

**Author's Note:**

> So good to finally be continuing this, I think it's been... what, three weeks since part 1 ended? Not too long, but long enough, I guess! Also, a special thanks to some people who have been sticking with this story for quite a while now: Linorien, Raphale, and FayeDuLake, thank you guys for your constant encouragement, it means the world!

Merlin takes a shortcut home from the local chemist's, down a small back-road to get back to the flat. He’s kept the same flat for thirty years – the longest he’s ever remained in one place since Scotland and… what was his name again? Archie?

The name is probably scribbled all throughout six years’ worth of journal entries. He wonders if he should really scan the pages of that journal and store it electronically, on one of those flash drive things, but he always decides in the end that no, it would take too long.

He’s gotten worse at remembering all the names as the years wear on, each going by in a blink, and simultaneously stretching themselves out into their own eternities.

The twenty-first century is terrifying, for a lot of reasons. He’d thought the Industrial Revolution was bad, but _this_. The turn of the century just about gave Merlin whiplash.

Over a millennium and a half, Merlin has earned PhD's in linguistics, many of the sciences including biology, pharmaceuticals, chemistry, and psychology (because that shit was useful, and why the hell not), as well as English literature, Ancient history (top of his class in 1976), music theory, maths, all while still managing to slip under the radar undetected as someone who could've existed before.

 

But now, the turn of the century brings an even bigger challenge: internet.

It’s just another time-consuming, fast-growing part of his life- making sure he doesn’t leave an electronic trail through the depths of cyberspace. And with the age of insane technology and, bugger all, _camera phones_ , he’s been somewhat slowed in his attempts to apply to many more schools.

Records and bank accounts are being computerized; consequently, they’ve become much harder to tamper with, even through magical means. Although, Merlin thinks to himself, there’s plenty of time to learn.

He watches a group of teenage girls pass by on the other side of the street, all laughing at something on one of the girl’s phones.

He honestly doesn’t care enough to learn about all the apps that those smart phones have, still preferring simpler things. Cameras, for instance, and how easy it is to record video. Merlin’s recorded everything from Max getting shitfaced in his newest flat during a housewarming party with some old uni mates, to the celebration of Max’s fortieth at the Hornith home. He’d never understood the constant mourning of parents who didn’t want their children to ever grow up.

Now he does and it _hurts_.

Max keeps getting older – it’s how time works, after all – never losing his odd brand of charm nor his good looks, which Merlin gets in the habit of taking all credit for.

But every so often the fear washes through him that, one day, Max isn’t going to be around anymore. The Horniths are mortal, and Max… Merlin isn’t sure what Max’s deal is. He could grow into an old man, and remain that way for eternity. Merlin had at one point convinced himself that, seeing as Max is his son, he could also be a candidate for immortality.

But somehow, Merlin doubts it now. Neither he nor Max has ever brought up the subject.

And to be honest, Merlin would never wish immortality on anyone else.

 

The Horniths did, eventually, discover the truth about Merlin.

And… they’d been _happy._

Merlin didn’t really get the Horniths, but he was at least pleased to find that they didn’t hate him for having left Max’s mother before the kid was even born.

Mrs. Hornith was especially understanding. Insisted through motherly reasoning that he couldn’t have known, although she did scold him for not using protection. That had been a rather awkward family dinner. Max thought it was hilarious. "But if he'd done that, I never would've been born," he'd pointed out. That shut everyone up.

 

Merlin checks his watch – he doesn’t care for using his phone for that, still a little stuck in his old habits – and nearly bumps into a woman with a shock of white hair and a cane. He stutters an apology and adjusts the shopping bags on his arm, stepping aside to let the woman pass. The woman grumbles and narrows her crinkly eyes at Merlin, but continues on her way.

Breathing in the evening air, Merlin continues in the direction of his flat. It's been a surprisingly warm February, all he wears over his jumper is a light jacket. No hat today, just a scarf. The red one, almost as old as he is, and just like Merlin it hasn't aged a day since Camelot. His grip tightens around his grocery bags and he takes in the view of all the little shops passing him by when someone he didn’t realize was behind him goes, “Oh. My God.”

That same someone spins Merlin around by the shoulders two seconds later – catching him off guard.

The world seems to tilt at a ninety degree angle.

Before his thoughts can catch up with his body, Merlin is face to face with a young man with twinkling blue eyes, curly, dark hair, and a dimpled smile.

“ _Merlin_? This can’t be happening…. Is that really you, mate?”

Oh _, fuck_.

The recognition comes to him in a flash of colourful, vivid memories. Unpleasant memories.

Merlin hasn’t been able to stop seeing this same face, etched into his nightmares, coming up a close second behind Morgana’s.

And now – and _now,_ after all these years of just _waiting_ for the chance, Merlin, more on instinct than anything else, does something he’s wanted to do for a very long time. Approximately fourteen hundred years, actually.

The other man doesn’t even have time to register before Merlin’s fist connects with his jaw and he goes sprawling, landing on the asphalt with a yelp.

To Merlin’s credit, he could’ve done much worse.

 

He could have shattered Mordred’s jaw instead of holding his punch.

 

A couple pedestrians passing by on the other side of the road notice the exchange and mutter anxiously to one another, glaring at Merlin, but neither one makes a move to call the police. Thank _god_. He knows he’s in for quite a bit of trouble already.

As painful as receiving such a perfectly delivered blow to the face must have been, Mordred only claps a hand to his jaw and forces a sheepish smile, showing off pearly white teeth before he moves to a sitting position with one leg on the pavement and the other in the empty little road, straddling the curbside. His clothing is worn, and he’s obviously been living on couches for the past month (at least), if the bulging duffel bag and shabby, threadbare trainers tell Merlin anything.

“Can’t say I didn’t deserve that one,” the young man mutters, wincing a little, but a smile remains ever-present in his twinkling eyes, making the corners crinkle. “Nice hit. Where’d you learn to throw a punch like that?”

Merlin’s brow furrows.

Mordred isn’t attacking.

 _Why_ isn’t Mordred attacking? Now this is just raising every single red flag Merlin can think of. It’s got to be a trap.

“Why aren’t you attacking?” Merlin asks lamely. Maybe it’s because he’s just too stunned to process, or he’s just incredibly confused. It might be both. Actually, yeah, it’s both. Mordred staggers up from the curb, still clutching the side of his face.

“Oh my god, you have no idea how long I’ve been looking for you--”

“The feeling is _far_ from mutual,” Merlin snarls, expression stony. The two grocery bags slung over one arm dig through his jacket and into his skin. He growls at the unpleasant sensation and sets them on the ground slowly, but never takes his eyes off of Mordred.

His magic has gone into a fit, panicked with fight-or-flight and fueled by centuries of rage and betrayal. Heat boils beneath his skin and magic flares behind his eyes in the harried anticipation of an attack, in case Mordred’s playing dumb until Merlin drops his defenses. He’s thankful that there isn’t anyone around to witness it; Merlin’s almost positive that the magic is emanating from him in waves. Even the temperature feels like it’s gone up, along with the tension, thickening the air and nearly smothering him.

Mordred must have gotten the message, because he actually backs up a step, holding up his hands in a show of surrender. He hasn’t got anything in his hands, although the leather jacket he’s wearing could easily conceal any sort of weapon, magical or mundane.

Merlin can’t see a reason for Mordred to be in want of a firearm when he’s already got his own magic, but anything is possible. Better to be prepared for anything.

“I’m not here to hurt you, I swear,” Mordred says evenly, one hand extended. Merlin doesn’t take it.

“To kill me, then,” Merlin presumes, eyes still locked on Mordred’s face without so much as blinking.

Mordred shakes his head from side to side – slowly. Clearly, he assumes that any sudden moves will earn him nothing but a second punch in the face. Merlin can’t deny he’s tempted. “Not to kill you either, no."

"Like hell that's true."

"Oh my god, you have no idea how long I've been searching - Jesus, I know this sounds far from what you’d expect, but Merlin, I’m here to _help_ you. I’m only here to help, please…”

"Help!" Merlin lets out a high-pitched laugh, feeling a mixed combination of nausea and adrenaline. He isn’t buying into this, not for a minute. “What _exactly_ gives you the idea that I would ever trust you?” he hisses. The fury boiling in his veins has cooled off marginally, but by no means is it enough for him to feel lenient for Mordred’s sake.

It appears that Mordred is going to try to reason with him, anyway. Brave man.

Mordred lowers his hand and his expression is one of disappointment. But he nods as though he understands. “Look, I’m going to go out on a limb that you’ve been around for longer than I, as I’ve come back quite a few times – always with the same body and name, mind you – but I’ve never turned out as the same person. I remember each life, in pieces, but my first life is the most vivid. I can’t even begin to explain how much I regret everything-”

“Shut up, just shut up. I don’t have to listen to this. You’re _lying_.” Merlin’s hands shake at his sides, but he’s ready to use magic if the need arises, and damn the consequences. He refuses to drop any of his defenses.

“I’m not, though.”

“That’s a shame, because I still don’t trust you.”

Merlin quirks an eyebrow. He doesn’t move an inch to get his groceries. His cold stare seems to be enough for Mordred to continue.

“Every now and again, it looks like,” he starts, “fate has decided that I should come back. I assume it’s payment for everything I did in my first life.”

“You were reincarnated, then,” Merlin says, only half asking. There aren’t many other explanations, if he’s being honest.

Mordred gives a hesitant nod, “Something like that, yeah.” Just then his head whips around to look over his shoulder. Merlin’s brow furrows; Mordred’s acting way too paranoid. Although, he did just get punched in the face, maybe it’s not completely irrational. If _Merlin_ can’t sense any danger present nearby, then what has Mordred acting so uppity? Well, okay, other than the fact that he’s just been socked in the jaw.

“I’ll explain everything. Do you think maybe we could find some place private to talk?” Mordred asks carefully. It’s strange, he almost looks… frightened.

Merlin doesn’t like it. If one of his sworn enemies looks _scared,_ then what else should he be worried about? And is it here for Merlin, too? That theory seems the most unlikely – Merlin has taken literally every precaution to keep that from happening.

After a beat of silence, at which time Merlin does a cursory scan up and down to make sure Mordred isn’t actually concealing any weapons, he reluctantly turns to lead the way to the one place he can be sure no one would think to go. He pointedly keeps himself angled just enough to keep an eye on Mordred out of his peripheral vision. Mordred’s eyebrows go up, but he doesn’t mention it.

Fortunately, it looks like he also realizes the gravity of all of this— Merlin has every right to be spooked.

It’s just surprising that Mordred isn’t rearing up in anger to attack Merlin, as one would normally do if, say, they had been mortal enemies who had a hand in getting each other’s loved ones murdered. Merlin still isn’t sure why he held his punch.

Maybe he’d sensed something different about Mordred, too.

It’s almost like someone took Mordred’s body and replaced the personality with a gentler, mellowed out version of the Druid boy from Camelot’s glory days. Every time Merlin looks back to stare at the man – he hardly looks that far out of boyhood, really – all he receives is a small smile. An actual, genuine smile. It’s _unnerving_.

Merlin doesn’t trust it. But... he _wants_ to.

 

**::{}{}{}::**

 

The dim light of the pub adds an atmosphere of confidentiality, the feeling that whatever is said between the two of them should never make it to the ears of another living soul. It’s the last place anyone would search for Merlin, because, ever since Max moved out, he’d given up going to pubs or bars altogether. He can get enough local gossip just by listening in on the widowed Mrs. Herman with the ghastly teeth, and her next-door neighbor, Edith, who always agrees to join Mrs. Herman on her walks through the park on Saturday mornings, just as Merlin heads out to work.

One of the downsides of staying in one area for longer than anticipated: aging spells. It sucks, but it’s necessary. This time, though, Merlin’s opted to go as his normal self. The passersby wouldn’t know him by face, anyway.

"Here we are, fourteen hundred years later," Mordred says, looking across the table in wonder.

"Get on with it, then," says Merlin. He only has ears for explanations, not niceties.

Mordred seems to get the message, and explain he does.

Merlin listens, still refusing to lower his defenses completely, while Mordred empties all of his stories into Merlin’s patient ears.

“I served time in prison more times than I can count. I’ve been beaten and abandoned, lived on the streets as a beggar, grown up in a household with druggie wannabe rock stars,” Mordred starts to count off on his fingers, forgetting his pint for the moment. He’d insisted on paying for drinks, too. Merlin had almost offered after glancing over Mordred’s shoddy clothes and the few belongings he’d brought with him, but ultimately let the younger man pay. It makes Merlin feel marginally better about this whole meeting. Or whatever this is. Mordred was sort of his sworn enemy, after all.

But this Mordred wasn’t really the same Mordred, was he?

“I remember it all. I’ve done my penance. Hell, I even came back as a _priest_ once.” He shudders at the thought. “Damned vows of poverty _and_ chastity. _Chastity,_ Merlin.”

Merlin snorts at the pained look on Mordred’s face. “Serves you right.”

“Well, if that wasn’t ironic, I dunno what is. How did I ever get through those forty two years, anyway?” He starts to mumble, but Merlin interrupts his reminiscing.

"So why are you here now?" Merlin asks.

"I'm on the run."

Merlin inclines his head expectantly. "...From?"

"This cult," Mordred whispers, just loud enough to be heard by Merlin over the din of a group of men playing poker over by the billiards table. He looks a little unfocused, training half of his attention on Merlin and the other half on the small crowd of people in the pub.

"Cult."

"They call themselves the Judges."

Merlin's hand freezes halfway to his glass. The Judges… the very same, he’s sure of it. It’s no coincidence. “You’re on the run from them?” he questions, keeping his voice even, although his instinct tells him to get home and double check that he’s taken every precaution to cloak his identity. These cult followers might be touched in the head and interested in amateur recruits, but they’ve been at this for decades. Hell, centuries. If they haven’t died out as just another trend by now, they’re probably more trouble than they’re worth. Merlin’s too old to make the rookie mistake of investigating; They’d smell him out sooner or later – not that they’d be able to do much to him without getting blown to kingdom come themselves. A muscle twitches in his jaw just the same. All of it rubs him the wrong way.

“Wait, don’t tell me _you_ know them,” Mordred breathes, catching the look on Merlin’s face.

“Not directly, but I hear things.” Merlin’s expression clouds over, his drink forgotten in an instant. “What did you do to get them on your tail? You must have really ticked them off.”

Mordred laughs nervously. “Oh, uh…” he clears his throat and sets down his own drink on the table. Merlin can see him chewing at the inside of his cheek. He wonders just how bad an ordeal Mordred’s been through. “They recruited me.”

Merlin recoils in his chair. “You _are_ a spy,” he snarls, hackles raised, and just like that his magic is ready to be released once again, springing to his command. Mordred looks horrified.

“Wait, no!” he waves a hand in front of him, almost knocking over his glass. “No, it’s not like that. I was recruited, and at first, I thought that maybe they had an interesting concept going,” he presses on, grasping for a shred of clemency. “They seemed a lot like the Druids at first, you know? Very in-tune with nature, living off the land and seeing magic as something good instead of evil, all that stuff. They would practice rituals sometimes, but I was never allowed to participate. They obviously didn’t know who I was,” he huffs to himself. But then his expression turns much, much darker. “The whole hippie flower-child act didn’t last very long.”

“How so?”

With another paranoid glance over his shoulder – Merlin almost rolls his eyes at that – Mordred mutters, “They believed that they had the power to judge for themselves who was worthy to walk the earth – and who wasn’t.”

The feeling of a bucket of ice being poured into his lungs fills Merlin and leaves him wanting for air. But he keeps listening.

“They would seek out anyone in the community, anyone at all, who showed even the barest hint of disloyalty. If you questioned their methods, you were never seen again. I witnessed an execution, once.” That’s when Merlin notices Mordred’s hands: there’s a tremor in them, and the knuckles are white around his glass, threatening to break it. Merlin’s eyes flick back up to Morded’s drawn face. “I managed to get away, but that’s only because they had no idea what I could do. I was lucky.”

His magic. Of course, Mordred is a powerful sorcerer. A great bunch of neo-Druids wouldn’t be able to keep a hold on Mordred for long.

But if Mordred is _scared,_ and he certainly looks that way, Merlin has a vague idea of just how dangerous these people might be. He probably should have seen this one coming.

“Um, let’s change the subject, how ‘bout?” Mordred says suddenly, right before he picks up his glass and knocks the remaining contents back. Merlin lifts an eyebrow but doesn’t press further.

Later. He’ll definitely ask more later.

“Right,” says Merlin, and takes a swig of his own pint.

“So… how’ve you been? You remember any of your past lives?” Mordred asks, hesitant. He’s trying to be friendly, Merlin can see it, and it honestly weirds him out.

Mordred? _Friendly_?

Merlin is not as eager to return the act and let bygones be bygones, surely Mordred understands that.

When Merlin doesn’t respond, he asks again. “Okay, I’ll take that as a no.”

“What?” Merlin snaps back to reality. He blinks a couple times, and his focus returns. “Sorry, I didn’t hear that, come again?”

“It’s fine,” Mordred waves a casual hand in the air and motions for the bartend to bring them both another round of something stronger. “I said, do you remember any of your past lives?”

Merlin gapes. “Erm, past lives? I’ve only ever had this one.”

With a frown, Mordred cocks his head to the side, confused. “How d’you mean?” he asks.

Merlin is dumbstruck. Of all the people, _Mordred_ should have been the one to know Merlin’s dilemma. He was a Druid, after all, as well as a sorcerer. There had been legends, what, had he never heard a single one?

“You really have no idea, do you?” Merlin asks, hushing his voice, even though the general chatter amongst the other patrons is enough to give them some margin of privacy in the corner booth.

Maybe it’s something about the way Merlin’s voice lowers an octave in utter disbelief, but Mordred’s eyes are startled wide when he looks back at him, questioning. “I don’t understand?” he tries. He doesn’t sound like he’s putting on an act – Mordred genuinely does not know.

Merlin is going to fix that.

They’re briefly interrupted when a waitress slides two tumblers of something amber onto the table. Mordred nods in acknowledgment to the waitress and quickly tucks a tip into a pocket of her black apron. The young woman flutters her lashes and strolls away with her empty tray. It must have been a decent tip.

Merlin eyes his own tumbler but doesn’t drink, not in the mood to fall back into old habits, and continues where he left off. “All right, there’s something you need to understand, Mordred. You say you were reborn, again and again, yeah?” Mordred nods. Merlin slowly nods back. “Reincarnation. It’s happened to a few of you, I’m sure. Actually, I’m surer than anything I met Gwaine’s reincarnation back in the seventies.” His expression turns mockingly dark. “Damn,” he mumbles, “I really hope that wasn’t him.”

He half smiles, half cringes at the memory. But now that he thinks about it, how often has this happened to… to the others? Was it only Mordred, or did anyone else ever come back? And why did Merlin never _see_ them? It’s a thought that he’d rather stew over another time, in another place, with much different company.

Mordred is still waiting on an answer, so Merlin heaves a sigh, and says, “You had so many chances to become a new person and grow up again, become accustomed to a way of life and actually have a family, maybe. And maybe even lifelong friends, sometimes. I didn’t _have_ that, Mordred.”

“What, did your family immediately disown you, every single time you were born again?”

Merlin glares at his glass like it’s laughing at him. _You suffered far worse than that, mate,_ he can hear his own thoughts sneering at him. There are the voices, sometimes, the ones that keep him up in the middle of the night, telling him everything he’s ever done wrong, but right now it’s only his inner monologue. “I’ve been living without a family since my mother passed away. Over a _thousand years_ ago,” he says, hoping that might at least provide something by way of a hint.

“I… oh?” Mordred shifts uncomfortably in his side of the booth.

“Yeah. _Oh.”_ Merlin grabs his… whatever it is, and knocks back a gulp. It’s whiskey. He hates whiskey.

Mordred’s cheeks turn a bit pink. “Shite luck, mate… I’m sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, offering up the comment by way of sympathy. But something tells Merlin he’s _still_ not getting it.

Merlin withholds a scream of frustration. “ _No”_ he mutters through his teeth. “Mordred, you can say what you like but when it comes down to it, I’m probably one of the most powerful beings in history to ever walk the earth.”

Mordred arches an eyebrow.

“And yeah,” Merlin throws his hands up in the air, exasperated, “maybe that sounds like bragging but my point is, don’t you think a powerful sorcerer – and I mean _powerful_ – don’t you think maybe it’s a little different for someone like me? Death isn’t something so easily had. Trust me.”

“I don’t – come again..?”

“Mordred, you were a Druid once. Did you never once stop to think of what the name ‘Emrys’ actually means?”

Mordred’s brow furrows, thoughtful. His jaw goes slack. “Immortal One,” he whispers. Merlin can’t actually hear him over all the noise, but he knows Mordred’s got it. A thoughtful expression takes hold of him for a moment. A second later, Mordred’s eyes go from glazed over in thought to wide and completely abashed.

It’s about damn time, too.          

“I’m _immortal_ , Mordred. Or as close as there is.” He laughs without humor, shaking his head bitterly. Why had Mordred _ever_ given him so much grief over the centuries, when the man in front of him is so, utterly clueless? “And that means I’ve never died – though I’ve come awfully close, and sometimes I wasn’t even entirely against it – because my magic won’t allow it.” The uncomfortable look from Mordred grows into something even more awkward. It almost makes Merlin feel pleased. So the implications weren’t lost on him, after all.

“Nor have I been born again into a new life with a new family. I’ve been wandering this… this bloody _waste_ land of a planet, just trying to live, and then having to start over, with no family to speak of, no lasting friends, no time for that steady familiarity,” Merlin’s volume grows with every word, he’s _angry_ now _,_ “no sense of _belonging_ anywhere, because hell! It’s not like I could just be _born_ into a little town or a city with someone new to raise me, new surroundings to grow up in and get used to. Frankly, I don’t give a shit about how bad you say you had it.”

Mordred looks down at his drink, and it even looks like he’s had the sense to look somewhat ashamed. Good, Merlin thinks. He’s finally getting it stuck in that thick skull of his.

“To be reborn and grow up with all the memories fading away like it was all just a bad dream?” Merlin snarls under his breath, ready to snap like a rubber band pulled taut. “Of _course_ that couldn’t be me. Because life just isn’t fair. It isn’t; destiny needed me toughened up with centuries of suffering and a thousand years of patience to my name.”

He clutches at his own drink and curls the other hand into a fist on the grease-slicked tabletop, so hard he feels like the knuckles might break through skin. Mordred flinches, perhaps expecting Merlin to come at him swinging his fists like he did at their first meeting. He doesn’t.

“I’ve had to pack my bags and run, the minute someone was even close to figuring me out. Why do you _think_ that is?” he asks.

Mordred is still, lips pressed tightly together. He’s smart enough to shut the hell up and listen. “Because maybe it’s been over a thousand years since I stopped aging and Camelot fell, but that doesn’t mean magic is gone from the world. There are people out there who would just _love_ to find me – like your fucked up friends who call themselves Druids-”

“They’re not even my friends-”

“Doesn’t matter, because if they find you here with me, they’ll not only drag your arse back to hell, they’ll want to exploit _me_ for my powers. Not that they could, but I don’t feel like having to deal with that anyway.” Merlin uncurls his fist and lets it fall to his lap. His shoulders heave, but he can’t even bring himself to bring the glass to his lips in an effort to rally another fragment of his waning strength. “Do you know, Mordred, do you know what it’s like to fake one life after another for more centuries than you can count? On your own. Two. Hands?”

By the time he’s finished his rant, he’s shaking and he can _feel_ the sweat gathering on his palms, which are both now curled back into fists in his lap.

Mordred looks anxious. Maybe even sympathetic, although Merlin isn’t exactly used to seeing that expression on _him._

But, as angry as he still is about this entire fucked up thing, he feels better to have properly vented some of the pent up anger he’s been carrying around like a weight on his shoulders. Now he’s dumped some of it onto someone who just might _deserve_ to have such baggage dumped onto them.

A few seconds tick by wordlessly. The bar has begun to come alive as the sun continues to go down, and the volume in the room starts to rise. It is Friday, after all. Merlin glances at his watch: they’ve been sitting here for nearly a half hour now. Merlin should probably get going.

He doesn’t really have anywhere to be, though. And what is he supposed to do about Mordred? Just let him stroll around London without supervision? Everything that Mordred has told him so far could very well be true, but Merlin is not ready to put all of his trust in the man who killed one of the few people who made his life worth living.

“Where are you staying right now?” Merlin asks. Half of him hopes that Mordred plans to move on – preferably to Switzerland or Japan, that would be quite nice for him – and the other half hopes he remains within the general vicinity of London. Just in case something happens.

“Oh yeah, that reminds me!” Mordred says, perking up. The whiskey seems to have finally taken effect. Not enough to make him tipsy, even, but enough to spark his mood to something less than appropriate in Merlin’s company. “I’ve been looking for a place to room and… well, you know any places? I could use a roommate, haven’t exactly had a well-paying job in a little bit.” He shrugs and throws a sheepish, but hopeful, glance at Merlin. Merlin stares.

“You… You’re asking to be my _roommate?”_ he asks, wondering if maybe he’s got lead in his ears. "Is that what you're asking? Tell me it's not what you're asking."

“Guilty as charged, I guess,” Mordred says with another shrug, brushing it off as if he doesn’t totally understand what he’s just asked of Merlin, considering their mildly troubled past.

But Merlin has other thoughts. “Are you taking the piss?” Merlin snaps, and his eyes cloud dangerously with flecks of swirling gold. Thank god for the low light of the pub.

“It certainly does sound that way,” sighs Mordred, “but I can assure you I’m not. Taking the piss, I mean. What do you say? Bury the hatchet?” He sticks out a hand, presumably in the hopes that Merlin will shake it, suddenly comrades, thick as thieves, peas in a pod. Merlin can’t believe what he’s seeing.

“You…. You cheeky son of a _bitch_.”

Mordred grins full and wide this time. “Looks like you haven’t changed much since I last saw you, eh?”

“Nor you.”

“Hey, same body, new mindset.” Mordred smiles, and continues to smile-- until Merlin's fist connects with his cheek; the one that was formerly left unbruised. This punch will definitely leave a shiner. Mordred's head thunks into the wall behind him from the force of it, and a hand flies up to block anymore hits, which never come. "...Ow," he says, dazed.

The bartend on duty, unfortunately, witnesses the whole thing.

"Oi!" the man, surly from a long day on his feet, interjects over the bustle of bar noise, shouting at them in a thick Scottish brogue. “I’ll not have a brawl in my pub. Not now’n not never, you hear me?” he sets down the glass he was about to fill and begins to make his way around the bar. It doesn't look good for either of the men in the booth.

Cradling his other cheek now, Mordred is grinning _again_. "Something tells me we should get out of here,” he says, flashing Merlin his trademark smirk, dimples and all.

For once, Merlin agrees. "Right behind you," he says, just before they bolt from their booth to make a quick exit out the way they’d come.

Nothing says bonding like making a hasty getaway from a pub with an angry barkeep on your tail, yelling obscenities for the all locals to hear. Merlin thinks with the utmost apathy that he probably won’t be allowed back into that particular pub again.

 

**::{}{}{}::**

 

“I cannot believe I am actually letting you into my house.”

“Hey, ‘s not like I’m forcing you, mate.”

Merlin doesn’t like his tone. “No, I think I’d rather keep an eye on you.” Mordred scowls, but Merlin isn’t in the mood to be taking crap from the likes of him. “Much easier to make sure you don’t bring the world falling to shite.”

“Hey, like I said,” Mordred says, overly cheerful for the sake of getting on Merlin’s nerves, “I’ve changed.”

“So you’ve told me.” Merlin points across the sitting room in the direction of the hallway. “Guest room’s down the hall, last on your right. I work Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. Bills are paid for. If you want groceries, get them yourself.”

Scowling, Mordred walks in the direction Merlin’s finger is pointing and heads to the guest room on the right hand side.

Merlin really, really doesn’t like the idea of Mordred (how in the everloving hell is this even happening?) sleeping in Max’s old bedroom.

But then, it’s either that, or he makes Mordred sleep on the couch. Merlin may be many things, but he’s not a total prick.

He wonders just how long this arrangement is going to last. Then he groans - he forgot the groceries back at the pub. Luckily it was only two bags, and it was mostly milk bags, potatoes and canned soups. He can buy more. And maybe the milk will spoil and smell up the place if it isn't found within the next twenty-four hours, so there's always the chance that the barkeep from earlier will be even angrier than before. Good. Merlin hadn't liked the man anyway.

He hears the thunk of a bag being dropped to the floor.

"Keep out of the bottom drawer of the bureau," he calls down the hall. He'd only just remembered that he keeps most of his older t-shirts stored down there. Mordred returns the request with something imperceptible that Merlin can only take to mean, "okay," or possibly "fuck off." He'll be incredibly displeased if it's the latter.

They’ll _have_ to talk about this sooner, rather than later. When Mordred returns from the room, luggage-free and slightly more awkward in his own skin, Merlin sighs and cards a hand through his hair. It needs a comb. Mordred’s own curls look lackluster instead of possessing the usual shine that accompanies his signature dimples, the bright eyes, and big smile that Merlin has so often seen in the worst of his nightmares.

He’s rooming with one of his biggest fears. One of the people he’s hated most in the world for so, so long.

And now he doesn’t know _what_ to think anymore.

“I’ll make us some tea,” Merlin mutters, before removing his coat and placing it on the hanger, then toes off his trainers and makes his way towards the kitchenette.

If he had been a hundred years younger, Merlin might have done the immature thing and not offered Mordred tea. But now he sees just how worn out the young man looks. He looks worse than Merlin, and Merlin's been having a shite week as it is.  
  
When the tea is made, Merlin hands over a mug to Mordred, who has since taken a seat on the sagging sofa, and lowers himself into the recliner. Mainly because the recliner is not meant for strangers, and especially not for Mordred. Mordred appears to be sinking into the cushions like he's just sat down in some slow-acting quicksand.

He looks around, politely interested in the interior design of the flat, even though it really isn't much to look at. Ever since Merlin had the place to himself, the flat has definitely remained tidier. But that's really because Merlin doesn't have a whole mess of crap to toss about the place, other than his t-shirts. He still hasn't found some of them, but he suspects thievery of the Max nature.  
  
"Nice place. Very retro," Mordred comments offhandedly.  
  
"Been here since the eighties."

"Damn, really?"

Mordred mulls that over, but then his brow pinches in confusion. "I think I was… holy crap, I wasn’t even _born_ then?" He looks Merlin over more carefully than just the brief once-over he'd given him, back during their initial encounter. “You know, I haven’t been on a constant loop of rebirths, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Merlin takes a sip of his tea, remaining silent as an invitation for Mordred to elaborate.

“Well, all right, there was one time when I kept on living to thirty, dying, and then being reborn again a year later. I’d only realize it once I was actually old enough to keep track of the years, though. That was a weird time. Farming is not an easy gig, let me tell you, my hairs were greying by thirty… sorry, off topic."

Merlin makes a gesture to signal he doesn’t mind. Mordred inhales slowly, collecting himself. “But other than that, it skipped around. Came back just once in the twelfth century, and lived in Scotland. Became a farmer. Same thing when I came back in the 1650s, only that time I was back in London.”

“I was in London then,” Merlin interrupted. “Wait, how come I never saw you?” He looks stunned. All this time, and Mordred was right under his nose.

“Were you?” Mordred asks thoughtfully. He blows at the steam wafting from his own mug of tea and murmurs, “That’s strange. What were you doing there?”

“Working as a physician. You might have heard of me, I was known as Doctor Nathaniel Murphy.”

Mordred gawks. “That was _you?”_ he splutters, “you treated my uncle! He could’ve died if you hadn’t been there to set his leg.”

Merlin allows himself a small smile. “All in a day’s work,” he says, brushing it off.

“No no, that’s really amazing. I can’t believe that was you! You have to tell me more. Where else did you go?”

“I think I’d rather hear about you, if it’s all the same.” Merlin eyes Mordred, putting down Max’s old Star Trek mug. He’d bought another one for Max’s thirtieth birthday. “You have a lot of years to fill me in on, as I never once ran into you, not once in my life, and I’ve been around for so long it would make your head spin.”

Mordred nods at that, in full agreement. There’s something about the way Merlin looks at him that has him shifting uncomfortably on the sofa.

He suddenly loses the lighthearted, reminiscent demeanour, all defenses dropped, and puts his own mug down carefully. “Look…” he begins, “Believe me, honest to god believe me when I say I’ve paid the price for what I did.” His face begins to burn red, flinty-eyed while Merlin watches from his place on the recliner, prepared to interrupt, but he ends up listening instead. He would, of course, like to lash out. But fourteen hundred years can have a lasting impact on the art of patience.

Plus, Merlin is too tired to fight. He’d rather drink his tea and wait for an explanation. Besides, if Mordred was here to kill him, he would have done so by now. It’s not the threat of an attack that worries him.

“I made… horrible mistakes,” Mordred whispers, looking completely and unquestionably guilty, and Merlin thinks it’s a start, at least. He won’t disagree. “I know what I did, it’s not like I forgot. I spent every one of my lives trying to make up for the things I did. I never killed another soul, not one.”

Jaw set, Merlin stops himself from blurting out that he thinks Mordred is lying. That part is _much_ harder to believe. Mordred has spent so long plaguing Merlin’s dreams, walking amongst his thoughts as nothing more than a killer. It’s not going to take one simple conversation to make it all go away.

“I swear to all the gods above. I never killed a soul after…” Mordred swallows thickly. Merlin has to look away.

If he looks at Mordred, he’ll break, and he doesn’t want to break. Not now.

Not when there’s hope again. If one of them has come back, then… then perhaps Arthur can’t be that far behind. But he doesn’t want to tell himself that yet. He doesn’t want to risk jinxing it.

“I know that I can never really make it right.”

“You’re damn right about that,” Merlin snaps, seething in his chair. He shuts his eyes, and forces himself to reign in everything that tells him to burn the walls of the room to ashes and set Mordred aflame along with them. “And I know why you did it. I saw you unraveling from the moment you set eyes on Kara, down in the cells of the citadel. I saw it in your eyes,” he continues, growing softer with every word, “the fear of not really belonging, of losing the one you loved – and then, you left to join Morgana.”

Mordred winces.

Merlin's not sure if it's because of the conviction in his tone, or because the bruise along Mordred's jaw and the shiner on his left cheek are starting to look nasty. They probably sting. _Good,_ Merlin thinks.

“And I knew we would never get you back. And…” his words catch. He takes a breath in through his nose, sagging against the recliner. “And it was my fault.”

“No, it wasn’t-”

“All of it was, Mordred! And it all started when I decided not to tell Morgana my secret when she discovered her powers.” He brings a hand to his face, covering his eyes. “When I made the decision not to tell Arthur what I was, even after Uther died. When I gave him the advice that steered him towards keeping magic outlawed in the kingdom. It’s my fault, _all_ of it.”

The Star Trek mug goes flying off the table and into the opposite wall, shattering, without Merlin even having to lay a finger on it. Hot tea splatters over the nearest chair and drips down the ghastly green wallpaper as it stains all it touches a muddy brown.

Mordred flinches, but he’s clearly used to such things happening when his own temper gets the better of him.

Merlin’s magic is so, so sensitive right now, reading with his emotions like clockwork. He’s confused and angry with himself, and just to add fuel to the fire, he’s sitting in front of the stuff of nightmares. He’s allowed Mordred into his _home_ , and yet, he hasn’t killed anyone. He must be going mad.

“You are not your past, Merlin. This was not your fault, you can’t blame yourself.”

“Funny,” says Merlin, venom seeping into his voice. His eyes remain shut. “You sound like someone else I know.” He doesn't say who.

“Well whoever they are, they’re very smart to tell you that.”

Merlin scowls and continues to face away from Mordred.

“Merlin, you’re not the one to blame for Arthur’s death. Look!” Mordred gestures madly at himself, “ _That_ person is sitting right in front of you.”

“Shut up," Merlin hisses. "You act like I don't realize that! Guess what, it's the only thing that's been on my mind since I hit you the first time!"

"And I deserved that, just as much as the second time you did it. But-"

"I thought I just told you to shut up," Merlin says again, but it already sounds weak in his own ears.

Mordred will not shut up. “And you’re not even trying to kill me. See? You’re listening to me. What does that tell you? What do you think that that means?”

He lets the question hang in the air for an unmeasured period of time.

The splattered tea continues to drip down the wall, as if the wallpaper's grown eyes and begun to cry.

 

Merlin opens his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter what it means,” he murmurs, staring at the wall like he’s suddenly become lost. He has, in a way. He can't bear the burden on his shoulders and _not_  begin to feel his spine cracking under the weight, and yet, he doesn't know how much longer he'll have to keep it up. Maybe not long, but maybe forever. The next breath he releases is shaky and raw, and a shudder runs through him as the blood in his veins continues to keep him alive, keeps the blood pumping oxygen to his brain, to the organs and into his bones, always forbidding death, constantly reminding him that he's in this for the long haul. “Because it’s still my fault.”

 


	2. Back in Black

_Three Weeks Later_

 

 

Merlin yawns, grabbing the nearest jumper from the floor and tugging it on over his head, before trudging tiredly out of his room in search of his coat and shoes.

The coat is hanging on the coat hanger, same as always, but for reasons still unknown he can never remember where he’s put his shoes. You’d think nearly a millennium and a half he would have figured out a system by now. With a sigh, he does a scan of the sitting room and spots them, strewn next to the La-Z-Boy.

Rubbing one eye with the heel of his palm to get rid of the lingering sleep, Merlin shuffles across the shag rug to get to the chair, at which point he discovers that these are not, in fact, his shoes.

Merlin grabs one shoe, which rests halfway underneath the recliner, and plucks the other one up from behind the chair. When he actually catches a whiff of the trainers, ripe and very strong, Merlin gags, throwing a hand across his nose.

“Oi!" he yells down the hall, "Mordred, could you _please_ learn to keep your smelly trainers anywhere _but_ the kitchen and living room, yeah?” He gingerly holds up a muddy pair of black shoes with purple stripes between his thumb and forefinger, crinkling his nose like they’re the source of a lethal pestilence.

He hears the sound of Mordred grumbling and the squeak of old bedsprings, just before Mordred emerges from Max’s old room, still in his pjs—which are really just a pair of boxers and, surprise surprise, a black t-shirt. “What’s all this noise?” he groans, sniffling and rubbing both his eyes, probably even more asleep than Merlin.

“Your shoes,” Merlin huffs from next to the recliner. “They could knock a grown man out cold. I’d say I’m lucky to be alive.”

“Always the drama queen,” Mordred mutters behind a yawn. “They shouldn’t smell, I just stuffed ‘em with tea bags only last night,” he points at the shoes, as if the proof is right there and Merlin need only look again to see it.

“They’d better not be _my_ tea bags,” Merlin growls between gritted teeth, dangerous.

Mordred throws his hands in the air at that. “What! What other tea bags are there?”

“Geez…” Merlin palms his forehead, trying not to dwell for too long on the idea of Mordred using _his_ tea bags as shoe fresheners. “Was it the earl grey?”

“The green tea. I wouldn’t put loose tea in my shoes, I’m not an idiot. You’ve got a boat load of the green tea bags in the pantry, I didn’t think using three or four would hurt.”

Merlin sighs, slightly less disgruntled. “You’re lucky I rarely drink that stuff. And while I’m _glad_ you didn’t use my favorite tea to freshen up your disgusting shoes,”

“Oi, c’mon!”

“You should know green tea is the worst for making anything smell better. Good job.”

“…Oh.” Mordred scratches his jaw, still appearing half-asleep. “So… would you mind if I used the mint instead, then?”

Merlin only growls back, turning his nose away from the disgusting trainers. Mordred really needs to buy some news ones… well, last year. “You know, using tea doesn’t always work, especially when the feet wearing them smell worse than sewage.”

“It should work! Seriously, smell them!” Mordred ignores the jab about his feet. Probably because he knows it’s absolutely true.

Merlin cringes, and makes no move to stick his nose closer to the rank pair of trainers. “Trust me, mate, they reek.”

“But that’s impossible, tea bags _always_ work.”

“Yeah, well, I’m sure they do. Congratulations, your shoes smell like foot-flavored tea, cheers to you for smelling up my sitting room.”

“Ah ah!” Mordred says, wagging a finger, “ _our_ sitting room.”

“Shut up.” He thrusts the trainers in Mordred’s face, looking lethal. “Now _please_ put them away. Before I bake them into a cake and force feed them to you.”

“Harsh. And I will put them away when you stop giving me that _look_.”

“What look?” Merlin asks challengingly. “If you mean my _glaring_ , you bloody well ought to know you deserve it, and don’t you dare try to deny it.”

Mordred doesn’t. But it’s clear he wants to.

What Mordred _wants_ to say doesn’t matter to Merlin, as he’s got places to be. Once Mordred finally reclaims his trainers (and gags when he’s given them a smell), Merlin grabs his jacket, seeks out his shoes tossed beneath the coffee table, and slips them on before shrugging on the plain, brown jacket.

“And where are _you_ going?” Mordred asks, crossing his arms. He looks so like a disapproving mum that Merlin nearly laughs. But Mordred continues to stare at him, waiting for an answer.

“I have to make a grocery trip.”

“Where to?”

“None of your goddamn business.”

Mordred might be mellowed out from centuries of scattered reincarnations, but he’s still Mordred. He’s never been one to take kindly to quick tempers, starting out as a Druid and all.

“Why’m I not allowed to know anything?” he asks. “I mean, I get it, I was sort of an arsehole--”

“Are you actually fucking _kidding_ me, you really don’t understand what you’ve done--?”

“Yes I bloody well _do_ understand, and if you’d just give me the time of day to explain all the ways I’ve paid for it--!”

The front door swings open.

Both Merlin and Mordred stop, mid-shout. A man in old jeans, a plaid green shirt, and a field coat of a slightly darker shade steps into the room.

The man must be in his early fifties, but his looks definitely haven’t gone anywhere bad. He looks between Merlin and Mordred, frowning.

“What’s with all the yelling?” he asks, casually sweeping away a stray curl of dark hair before throwing his hands in his pockets. They hear the sound of keys jingling from within one of the pockets in his jacket.

“Um…” Mordred frowns, brow pinched as he looks from Merlin, who looks undisturbed at their unexpected guest, and the man, who seems to know Merlin from the easy way he sidles in like he owns the place. “Who’re you?” he asks.

“Ah,” the man sticks out a hand, grinning a warm grin, “Max Hornith. Pleasure to meet you.”

“Mordred,” Mordred answers, hesitantly taking the hand to shake.

“What happened to your face?” Max asks, eyes narrowing when he catches sight of the bruises on Mordred’s jaw and beneath his left eye. “Merlin.”

“Yeah.” Merlin avoids eye contact.

 “Care to explain?”

Merlin looks ten different kinds of uncomfortable, staring back and forth between his new roommate and his old one.

Otherwise known as his old enemy and his grown-up son. “Why are you assuming it was me?” Merlin asks defensively, before Mordred glares back at him, which does nothing to ease Max’s petulant expression.

“You two aren’t dating, are you?”

Mordred nearly chokes.

Merlin does the same, spluttering and quickly turning a beautiful variety of pinks and reds. “Jesus,” he croaks, “ _God_ no, please never-” he coughs, thumping his chest to get some air into his lungs. He doesn’t know whether to laugh or be sick on the carpet.

At least then he’d have a valid excuse to replace the stupid thing.

“Please never suggest anything like that ever again,” Merlin croaks out once he’s taken a nice, deep breath. “Max… God, I don’t even know where to begin.”

“Just making sure you’ve not put anyone in an abusive relationship.”

“Do you really think that low of me, Max?” Merlin asks, crossing his arms. “Cut me come slack, I’m not _that_ terrible.”

“Oh, so you can kill people, but abusive relationships is beneath you now?” Mordred interjects. It's a low blow.

“That is the most loaded sentence I have _ever_ heard-”

“ _Enough!”_ Max snaps, effectively bringing the shouting match to a close. “Stop it, you two. Now…” he rounds on Mordred, who takes a step backwards, possibly in case Max comes swinging at him. Poor bloke just can’t catch a break. “He’s got magic. Don't you?"

"I don't know what you m-" Mordred is cut off again.

"I can feel it,” Max mutters, giving Mordred a once-over. “Mordred, right?”

“Um,” Mordred says, also very pink in the cheeks, “I’m sorry ehm, you gave me your name, but how exactly do you know Merlin again?”

Merlin stands there, lips pressed so tight they've gone white. He won't look up. He doesn't want to talk about this, and he feels like Mordred's already invaded too much of his personal life. Max isn't even supposed to  _be_ here, he's supposed to be back in his own flat, doing whatever it is Max does before Merlin stops by for monthly tutoring in controlling his magic. A new set of healing spells, this month. Max has never been any good at healing-- like father like son.

But right now, Max doesn't seem too put out for missing his lesson. “He didn’t tell you?” Max asks Mordred, before throwing a sly grin Merlin’s way. Merlin glares. But he can’t stop Max once he’s started; and besides, it’s his call, whether he wants to tell other people about himself or not.

“My apologies for not making a proper introduction sooner. I live a few miles away, forgive me for bursting in like this," he says, uncharacteristically polite. "How do I know Merlin? Easy. I’m his son.” He cocks his head Merlin’s way.

Mordred’s eyebrows shoot up so high they become lost in his curly hair.

“His…” he points to Merlin, never taking his eyes off Max. Mordred takes in the dark hair, the high cheekbones and jaw lined with stubble, the tall, slender frame, even the cupid’s bow of his lips. There’s no mistaking it. Max is undoubtedly related to Merlin, in _some_ way.

“You’re his _son,”_ he stammers, before turning back to look at Merlin, stunned. “Well,” he says, collecting himself, “guess you’ve managed to get around after all, eh?”

Merlin lunges, but Max quickly intervenes in the nick of time.

“Oi!” he barks, pulling Merlin away before he can add another shiner to Mordred’s collection. “Now who’s the parent and who’s the child here, yeah?” Mordred looks like he’s holding back a laugh, amusement sparkling in his eyes. “What’s this all about then, hm?” he asks, more quietly, and lets Merlin’s arm go with some reluctance.

Merlin is still the most powerful sorcerer in the room, there’s no denying. Merlin doesn’t doubt that he probably looks ready to blast the door off its hinges.

“All right, that’s it,” Max says, and points to the couch. “I am going to sit in my La-Z-Boy with a nice mug of tea--”

“It’s always tea with you people,” Mordred mutters. Max frowns.

“...Like I was _saying_ ,” Max says, grinding his teeth this time, “I am going to sit over there, you," he points at Mordred, "are going to put on some trousers, then the two of you are going to park your sorry rears on that sofa over there, and the three of us are going to have us a nice little chat. Starting with, who the everloving hell are you _really?_ ” He motions to Mordred, who makes no move to object. Nor does Merlin. “Sound good?”

He raises a questioning eyebrow, eyes flicking from Merlin to Mordred and back again.

In unison, they both nod.

In hindsight, Max is probably much more accustomed to behaving like an adult in their current situation, anyway.

 

**::{}{}{}::**

 

The High Judge looks up at the dome of interwoven wards and magical shields, her hood drawn up around blonde hair, shading brown eyes so dark they might as well be black.

“The High Priestess is due to return in just a few weeks’ time,” the woman says, projecting her voice to reach the ears of the twenty men and women flanking her from behind. “When she returns, we will be ready. Constantine.”

A man in his early thirties, long-nosed and peevish-looking, steps forward from the crowd of twenty others. “My Lady,” he says, bowing his head respectfully. He also wears a cloak, a deep purple that contrasts sumptuously with the High Judge’s solid black.

He may be young in looks, but his eyes betray an age so great, it can only be rivaled by that of the most powerful sorcerer to walk the earth, and the land’s last High Priestess of the Old Days. The body that he wears and the spirit that he is do not belong together.

“When the High Priestess again walks the earth, she will be a different person. Find her when she wakes. You know what to do.”

“Aye, my Lady.”

“With our power combined, she will not be strong enough to fight this,” the woman says, the smallest smile playing at the corners of her full lips. The woman is not so young herself. She looks youthful, just as Constantine appears so. She is not quite so old as he, but she is old. She is the one who holds magic.

Powerful magic.

“One mistake, and I will break you,” the Judge says calmly. Constantine looks unbothered. “One false step is all it takes to lose our momentum. You know how long we’ve worked to finally see our people have the closure they deserve. Emrys abandoned us, as did his king. When we take magic back, he will pay dearly.”

“It’s a promise, my Lady,” says Constantine, and as he says it, he smirks up at the sight of the smallest ripple disrupting the air above them for just a second, no more, as the wards, more ancient than even him, twist and float in an enormous dome formation. The wards weave and lace together to create the one barrier between the small group and the nearly intact citadel. They haven't weakened at all with time, but if what the High Judge says is true, they will collapse under the combined power of the Judges and the Old Religion's last High Priestess.

“Magic will have a place in the world again.”

“In Camelot as well, this time,” the High Judge says, gazing upon the illusion of ruins, an illusion that cloaks the reality of a hidden city, a once-prosperous kingdom.

“Camelot will have a king once more,” Constantine murmurs. “The world will have a ruler, a uniter. And he will be a far better leader than Arthur Pendragon.”

 

**::{}{}{}::**

 

Mordred gulps down his third cup of herbal tea before Merlin and Max both finish their story about their meeting. And everything after that.

“Hmm,” Mordred says thoughtfully, setting down his mug. It’s the only mug with bright pink and purple flowers and hearts painted on, as Max was not willing to lend him one of his beloved Star Trek-inspired mugs, like the one that says, _“The teas of many outweighs the teas of few,”_ or _“Tea me up, Scotty_ ,” or his personal favorite, “ _I’m giving it all tea’s got, Captain!_ ”

He’s got his very own collection stashed at Merlin’s place. He’d run out of room in the cupboards of his own flat.

Max had finished his tea a while ago, this time cradling his precious, though empty, _“Captain James Tea Kirk_ ” mug in his hands, but he’d been perfectly happy to listen patiently while Mordred told his own, scattered stories. All while Merlin fumed silently on his side of the sofa.

The history major in Max had been geeking out nearly as hard as he had when Merlin revealed who _he_ really was, all those years ago.

 

Once all three have nothing left to say, the room is silent.

Mordred starts to giggle.

Merlin looks at the man like he’s lost his mind. “What’s so funny?” he asks, scowling.

Mordred continues until the giggling has turned into full-blown laughter, forcing his shoulders up and down. It’s so contagious that Max actually joins in, too, even though he probably has no idea why either of one is laughing in the first place. Merlin doesn't join in.

“No seriously, what’s so funny?” Merlin asks when the laughter finally settles, watching as Mordred actually wipes a tear from his eye.

Sniffling while he thumbs away another tear, Mordred snorts, “I mean, how is this not funny? Look at us," he waves at Merlin, then Max, and then at himself. "Two of the most powerful sorcerers to ever walk the earth, sitting side by side on a sofa as they drink tea and chat with the older sorcerer's Star-Trek-obsessed son.”

 “I’m right here," Max says, but his tone is good-natured. "And don't forget _I'm_ a powerful sorcerer, too.”

“You can’t deny it’s sort of, well, _hysterical_ ,” Mordred points out, grinning big. “This is like… like a really weird, bad fanfiction or something, y'know?”

“How do you know what fanfiction even i-?”

“Nevermind.” Mordred waves Max's last comment off. “It’s just… funny, right?”

“Hmm…” Merlin and Max both nod, humming in agreement. Mordred watches in amazement; the two men look so much alike, it’s no wonder they’re related. Merlin takes another sip of his tea, before he finally sets it down with the others.

“Right then. I’ll leave you two to talk, we’re nearly out of tea now and if any of us want lunch- yes, Max, you can stay for lunch- I’ve got to do grocery shopping. I’d invite you both to come but… I’d feel a bit ridiculous, no offense to either of you.”

“More ridiculous that you feel now?” Mordred asks, smirking. “Because this right here is bordering on mad.”

Merlin rolls his eyes. “I’ll be back in a half hour, maybe more. Try not to break anything.”

“No promises,” Max replies, grinning devilishly while Mordred picks his cold tea back up and takes a sip, giving Merlin the most innocent face he can conjure up. Merlin is not reassured, but he turns around anyway, exiting the flat and checking to make sure his wallet is in his pocket, shutting the door loudly behind him.

 

**::{}{}{}::**

 

He hadn’t needed to buy much. It was more like he’d been craving the fresh air and some time away from Mordred, without having to worry about the man being left alone. Mordred can say what he likes, but he’s still a sorcerer, and he’s dangerous. But Merlin has full confidence that Max can handle whatever Mordred throws at him.

He crosses his fingers and hopes that it doesn’t come to that. Gods, what has he done? Both men are loaded pistols- Max might appear cool-headed and collected, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t enjoy stirring up trouble. What  _has_ Merlin done?

Cripes, he’s really in for it now. He needs the day off. Or ten - Years, that is.

Throwing the groceries into the backseat of his car, he shuts the door, locks the car, and thrusts his hands into his jacket pockets. It’s not cold out, and he doesn’t really want to go back to the flat just yet, so instead, he supposes he’ll take a walk. Just down the street and back; he’s never really done that too often. Not unless he's hidden beneath the guise of an old man with a sour face and overall unapproachable persona. Now, though, he thinks he'll just go as plain old Merlin. Minus the 'old' part.

The street isn’t wide, with a few cars driving by here and there but not many, as it’s not quite rush hour yet. He can smell someone cooking barbeque, which is odd for the weather, mingling with the fruity perfume from a woman in heels and a trench coat passing by on the pavement, and the evening is only just begun.

Merlin strolls about and lets some of his cares roll off his shoulders, temporary but relieving all the same. He takes his time because he wants to, and doesn’t want to have to _care_ about anything for at least a few minutes. Can the universe give him that? A few minutes would be nice, thanks.

A car honks, and Merlin spares a glance across the street, where a couple shops and a small fitness center sit dully side by side. A few people have just begun to leave the fitness center, but only a couple of them mill about.

Merlin shrugs, and keeps walking.

Then he does a double take—he would recognize that mess of brown hair anywhere.

It can’t be. There’s no way.. _._

Merlin catches sight of him waving goodbye to an older woman in a leotard and loose t-shirt, shrugging on a jacket. The man himself is wearing short trousers, a neon yellow muscle tee with the sleeves cut off and ample chest hair rearing its ugly head from under the low neck, and a fire engine red bandana tied round his head. He's holding a blue windbreaker over one arm but doesn't seem to be in any hurry to put it on. Messy, sweat-slicked brown hair sticks out in all directions, somehow looking more roguish and appealing than haphazard or gross.

 

Of course, Gwaine _would_ be the one to manage that.

 

On his muscle tee, a clip-on name tag reads, “Hi! I’m your instructor, GWAINE!” with the last word written in with a red sharpie. That's enough for Merlin.

 

Before he knows what he’s doing, Merlin falls into a sprint, and without so much as looking both ways, he crosses the street at a dead run. A car honks, and perhaps someone shouts at him to get out of the way, but Merlin’s too distracted by freaking _Gwaine_ standing _across the street_ , like he never died fourteen hundred years ago by means of magical torture.

Merlin thinks he’s yelled something, but he’s not entirely sure. It’s just, one of his best friends isn’t _dead_ , and he can’t think about much more than that at the moment.

He hops over the curb, nearly falling but picking himself up before his face can make contact with the pavement, and stops just short of the man who is most definitely Gwaine, same mop of hair, thick eyebrows, stubble, pirate-ish good looks and all, and the same carefree smile.

 

When he turns at the sound of his name, Gwaine’s mouth falls open in a big wide “O” at the sight of Merlin.

For a second, he just stares. Like he can’t believe what he’s seeing.

Honestly? Merlin can’t believe it, either.

"Jesus _Christ_ on a _bike,_ " Gwaine breathes, stopping in his tracks as he drops his duffel bag from his shoulder, letting it land with a muffled _thump_ and what might just be the clinking of glass bottles. Merlin really shouldn’t be all that surprised.

But Gwaine is staring at Merlin like it’s the second coming of Christ. Before he realizes what's happening, Merlin steps forward, wrapping his arms firmly around the other man in a rib-crushing embrace. "Glad to see you, too," Merlin chokes out.

After what might be around thirty seconds of wordless hugging, Merlin wrinkles his nose. "You smell," he says. But he still doesn't pull away.

Gwaine chuckles and doesn't make any move to loosen the death grip, either.

"Yeah, well, Zumba Burst training will do that. Sweatier than Satan's arsehole in that studio, it is."

Merlin wisely decides to forgo asking what Zumba Burst is. 

"What took you so long, eh?" Gwaine asks, quiet enough that he doesn't disturb the well-needed comfort of the hug. 

"Been busy."

"Busy," Gwaine repeats. He doesn’t ask, and he doesn’t argue. He isn’t upset or impatient or anything even remotely close to that.

Only accepting, only _ever_ accepting. Unquestioning. Because it’s _Gwaine,_ and Merlin wants to ask _how_ this is possible, but he doesn’t want to ruin the moment.

"'S not like I _knew_ you were coming back, either."

“Gods I missed you, Merlin," Gwaine sighs, "You’ve no idea how many times I’ve come back, I’ve got so much to tell you.” Then he chuckles, and the laugh vibrates through his chest and hits Merlin, who refuses to let Gwaine move an inch.

“So’ve I,” Merlin says.

“I’ll bet.”

Merlin can’t believe it, it’s unreal. And if Gwaine is back, who else is out there? First Mordred, and now one of the knights. All he can think to himself is,  _please don't be another dream. Please, please don't let this be another dream._

Just then, the same door that Gwaine exited earlier swings open, and a young woman in fashionable, tight grey yoga pants and a bright pink tank top walks out, carrying a water bottle in one hand and an exercise bag over her shoulder. The name tag she’s wearing reads, “Hi! I’m your instructor, ANNE!” The name is written much more neatly than Gwaine’s, and with a blue sharpie instead of red. But it’s not the name tag that Merlin is focused on – it’s the woman herself.

It’s Niviane.

And suddenly, the waking dream has transformed into a waking nightmare. “How goes it, Callahan?” she chirrups, grinning from ear to ear as her eyes fall on Gwaine. “Just got out of my yoga session. Any plans for tonight?” Her grin turns sly and dirty, with hooded eyes and a simper that would make anyone with a weak stomach want to hurl. The expression makes Merlin’s stomach roil.

“As tempted as I am to say no, I really do have plans,” Gwaine says, not looking entirely apologetic. “Sorry Anne. But um,” Gwaine turns and gestures to Merlin, “Actually, this is an old friend of mine. Merlin.”

‘Anne’ whips her head around to face Merlin.

“Ah,” she says, and her tone lowers to something quieter. For a fraction of a second her eyes narrow, but if Gwaine notices he doesn’t say anything. Only Merlin sees the brief spark of recognition flit across her expression, before the woman smooths it over again.

“Merlin, is it?” she asks, innocent. Merlin catches himself before he can lunge forward and choke the life out of the woman. Niviane seems to be much better about keeping a cool head. After staring at Merlin a beat too long, she shakes her head and giggles like a schoolgirl. The tight ponytail swishes to and fro. “Sorry! I feel like I’ve met you somewhere before. Are you sure your name is Merlin?” The act might fool Gwaine, but Merlin can see the nasty glint in her eye. Niviane is toying with him. She’s toying with them both.

“Can’t say I have, sorry,” Merlin answers, forcing his expression into something neutral. “Nice to meet you,” he says, not meaning it.

 

Neither of them shakes hands.

 

Gwaine, forever the clueless, detects nothing of the tension between the two of them and says, “Well, I’d love to stay and chat, Anne, but I’ve got some catching up to do with this bloke here.” He elbows Merlin good-naturedly and steps towards the bike rack next to the wellness facility.

“…Yeah. Cheers,” Merlin says to the woman in a clipped voice. Gwaine gives Merlin a funny look, but wisely doesn’t question it.

“Well if it’s all the same to you, I’ll be going then,” says Niviane – or “Anne” – and hops down the little set of steps towards a shiny white Volvo parked by the curb, waving a hand behind her.

“Actually, can I speak with you a minute, _Anne?”_ Merlin asks, just as innocently as Niviane had been a moment ago. Gwaine looks between the two of them, bewildered.

“Well of course. Is something the matter? Or are you interested in joining my yoga sessions?” She giggles again, and Merlin suppresses a growl.

“I think I’ll go and get my bike then. I’ll ehm, leave you two alone to talk?” Gwaine shoots Merlin a glance, his eyes begging the question, _Is everything all right?_

Merlin nods minutely, and it’s all the reassurance Gwaine needs before he heads over to unlock his bike.

Niviane cants her head towards the side of the building and turns, rounding a corner. Merlin follows.

 

In the relative privacy of the shadows, and out of earshot from Gwaine, Merlin all but slams the woman against the wall, teeth bared and eyes glowing a furious gold.

“I should kill you where you stand,” he seethes, holding an arm across her throat, pinning her in place. Niviane only laughs.

One slender hand curls around Merlin’s forearm, perfectly manicured nails painted the color of blood digging into his skin.

“I’m not here to hurt you, Emrys,” she purrs back, a sneer touching her lips. “I’ve just been keeping an eye on you is all. You and your… friends.”

So there _are_ more of them out there, Merlin realizes as the thought settles at the forefront of his mind.

“I can’t tell you where the rest of them are,” Niviane answers, like she was expecting the question to arise. Of course. She _is_ a Seer, after all. “I had my fun back in that forest, silencing you for a few decades in the tree. It was good fun and I wouldn’t mind doing it again.”

“Over my dead body.”

“Unfortunately not. But not to worry, your suffering is far from over. I _am_ here to warn you, though.”

“Warn me?” Merlin bites out. He doesn’t believe that for a second… he doesn’t want to believe it. But Niviane doesn’t seem like she’s lying; Merlin would be able to sense that sort of thing. “Warn me about what?”

He looks behind him to make sure no one is listening in. They’re clear.

“The Druid spoke the truth, but not the whole truth,” Niviane recites, as though she’s been rehearsing this part of the conversation for ages. Her nails dig deeper into his flesh. Reluctantly, Merlin releases the woman from his vise.

“The Druid?”

Niviane sighs, exasperated, like she’s being forced to explain where babies come from to a five-year-old. “ _Yes,_ the Druid. When you returned to Camelot three hundred years ago, a Druid told you to be wary of the danger you would face when Arthur returned.”

“And why would I trust you?”

“Because I am after the same things that you are after, Emrys,” she spits back. Suddenly it doesn’t matter that she’s done up as a twenty-first century yoga instructor. An old soul is easy to spot if one knows what to look for, and Merlin can see how aged the woman is; He’s seen something similar, every morning when he looks in the mirror.

Age… he feels older than the earth, sometimes.

“Peace, freedom for me and my kind, and the land united once more,” Niviane murmurs. “I am not the same person my mother was. I wish you had not killed her, yes, but I discovered as time wore on that her intentions were not the same ones that I have sought.”

“I’m not just after those things,” Merlin rebuts, “Aren’t you forgetting? Arthur. He has to come back, and from what I’ve seen in the past, he’s no friend of yours.”

“I’m willing to overlook Pendragon, as long as he is willing to accept magic.”

“Sure.”

“I speak the truth.”

“You would _trust_ that? You would trust a Pendragon after his father caused so much destruction? I knew— I _know_ Arthur and I have faith in him, but I seriously doubt you would be so quick to trust any son of Uther.”

“You trusted Mordred, didn’t you?”

She does make a good point. A really good point, but Merlin doesn’t necessarily _trust_ Mordred. More like he tolerates him—doesn’t loathe him quite as much as he once did. Perhaps that’s what Niviane means.

“I don’t trust him,” Merlin says aloud, “I’m keeping an eye on him.”

“Sure,” Niviane mimics. “But know this: I am not my mother, Merlin.”

“Good to know. What did you mean about the Druid not telling the whole truth?”

“The Druid spoke of Morgana Pendragon. Be cautious, Emrys, when Morgana returns, she will not be all that she seems.”

“I… what am I supposed to make of that?” Merlin brings a hand to his hair and runs it through the dark, messy waves. With the thumb and forefinger of his other hand he pinches the bridge of his nose, thinking hard, a habit he picked up long ago. “The Druid said that Morgana was a danger, and if Arthur returns, so will she.”

Niviane crosses her arms in disdain, chin raised. The action looks out of place on her with her yoga outfit, complete with a hot pink headband and flyaway ponytail. She’s not even wearing the signature lipstick this time. “The Druid was a Seer, Emrys, and not even a particularly powerful one. All he could do was see images. If he saw Morgana Pendragon attacking you or Arthur, then of course he suspects that she’s to be your greatest threat.” Her voice grows quiet. “But just be warned: she might not be as great a danger as she appears to be. Watch her closely, should you meet her again in the future. I will not help you. This is all I can do.”

 

As if on cue, Gwaine rounds the corner, a sleek black bike in tow. His brow furrows curiously.

“Am I interrupting something?” he asks. Merlin shakes his head and stops pinching the bridge of his nose.

“No, we were just talking about the yoga classes they offer at the facility!” Niviane gushes happily, before Merlin can get a word out. She’s returned to the carefree, bubbly act of a yoga instructor who prefers tight pants and ponytails to lipstick and revenge. “It was so nice meeting you, Merlin!”

She gives a bright, sunny wave as she turns back towards the road and the whole thing is highly suspect.

Holding up a set of keys she clicks a button, making the headlights blink and the car _blip_ twice. Once the classy white Volvo is unlocked, Niviane opens the door and hops into the driver’s seat, slamming the car door shut behind her. Merlin watches her look out through the windshield while Niviane gives them both a wink, and slides on a pair of designer sunglasses; they’re the horrendously posh, expensive-looking ones that cover half her face.

Gwaine and Merlin both watch with differing levels of confusion as the car purrs to life and pulls away from the curb, speeding off down the road.

Gwaine looks sheepishly from the shrinking view of the car to Merlin. Merlin can’t help but roll his eyes at Gwaine’s guilty expression.

“Oh, _please_ tell me you didn’t,” Merlin begs.

“Well….” Gwaine’s voice pitches up half an octave. Then he catches the unimpressed look on Merlin’s face. “Okay, fine. Once. _Once._ ” He holds up a finger for emphasis.

Merlin can’t help it – he laughs.

It’s too nice to see one of his old friends, here and in front of him and in the flesh and really not as different as he could have turned out. Merlin pushes all thoughts of his strange run-in with Niviane from his mind. “It’s so good to see you again, Gwaine.

  
Gwaine grins. “I should say the same about you, my friend. What were you and Anne talking about really? You weren’t actually talking about yoga, I know when she’s lying to me. I hope you weren’t asking for her number.”

“What? No!”

Gwaine gives him a look.

“No, Gwaine, I wasn’t hitting her up for her number,” Merlin insists, “We were talking about family… things. I thought she looked familiar. Turns out I knew her mother is all.” It’s a better excuse than he could hope for, since as it turns out, he really _did_ know Niviane’s mother. Granted, they hadn’t exactly been on good terms….

Gwaine nods, “Well, that settles that… Huh.” He shrugs and shoulders his exercise bag. “So, you want to walk and we’ll talk on the way back to my place? I’m just two miles north of here, just moved in a couple months ago.”

_Months?_

Actually, fuck it, Merlin does _not_ feel like dwelling on lost time now. He’s got all the time in the world, he’ll take what he can get.

“Do you want to take a drive instead?” Merlin asks. “I only live twenty minutes away. I’ll drive, if you don’t mind leaving your bike locked up overnight.”

Gwaine slaps him firm on the shoulder. “Now _that,_ my friend, sounds like a plan. So, what sort of car does a reincarnated manservant drive around in these days?”

 

**::{}{}{}::**

 

The expression that Gwaine pulls when he catches sight of the red car is… erring on disappointed.

“A… Volkswagen Beetle. I don’t know what I was expecting,” Gwaine looks at Merlin, who sits with one arm partly outside the driver’s seat window as he pulls up to the front the health facility.

Merlin mutters something under his breath. Something about “insulting his baby,” and “vintage,” but Gwaine doesn’t catch all of it.

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Merlin asks with a wave of his hand. “Get in!”

Gwaine sighs, looking around like he’s expecting to spot someone judging him from two blocks down, then walks around to the passenger side and hops in.

“Seat belt, please,” Merlin says.

“Such a mother hen,” Gwaine huffs, good-natured, but follows Merlin’s instructions and clicks in his seatbelt. It’s a warm day, the windows are all rolled down, and once Gwaine’s chucked his bag beneath the seat, he stretches out like a cat, making happy Gwaine noises.

“Please, never make those sounds again,” Merlin mutters as he pulls the car away from the curb. His baby really doesn’t have very good pickup. It’s slow-going at first, but the Beetle is trying her best.

“All _right,”_ Gwaine says, and stops stretching. His smile is still wide, though. “So, I’m curious,” he begins, and Merlin snorts from the driver’s seat.

“Here we go,” Merlin mutters. As much as he’d like to fill Gwaine in on everything he’s missed, Merlin has already told the story today, and it’s a very time-consuming task. Fourteen hundred years does not sound great as an abridged version. Not that anything that long can be effectively condensed and still make sense. “What do you want to know?” he asks, hoping Gwaine won’t ask about anything too broad.

“Might be a bit personal,”

“I’d expect nothing less from you, Gwaine.”

The man shifts in the passenger seat before he says anything more.

“Right, so, did you… eh, I’m not sure how to phrase this without making your poor little face go all pink, heh," it's not like Gwaine to be so... not forward. "But ehm--”

“Spit it out, Gwaine.”

“Okay, okay! How many people were you ever, y’know, _with?”_ He winks for good measure. “Like, in the _physical_ sense.”

Oh gods, it’s so painful. It hurts. Gwaine is actually going to kill Merlin, he's fully convinced. Leave it to Gwaine.

Just… son of a bitch, why.

“You mean,” Merlin says, looking Gwaine dead in the eye, “are you trying to ask me how many people I shagged while you arses were missing in action?”

“Damn, so _blunt_ with it,” Gwaine says, grinning lasciviously. He just about claps his hands together with glee. “I think I'm really going to like this new Merlin.”

“Not new,” Merlin groans, “more like very, very old.”

Gwaine lifts an eyebrow.

“I’ll explain later. But… yeah, there were a few people. Here and there.”

“And what does a ‘few’ mean to you? You’ve had _quite_ some time on your hands, my friend. I want the dirty details. Any lovers?” He rephrases, “As in, did you ever fall in love with anyone else? Or…”

“Or what?” Merlin snaps after a long, drawn out silence.

“You know,” Gwaine says, shrugging sheepishly, “or did you never move on from Arthur? It’s okay to be honest, I promise I won’t laugh-”

“ _Arthur?”_ Merlin is too focused on Gwaine’s assumption more than his offer to not make fun of Merlin, which in itself is a fairly incomprehensible feat. “Me and Arthur?”

“Yes? Tell me where I lost you.”

Merlin’s foot eases up on the pedal until they’re all but at a standstill in the middle of the empty road. Just for safety, Merlin pulls the car over and parallel parks by the curbside. That done, he unbuckles his seatbelt and turns to fully face Gwaine, who looks very perplexed.

“Gwaine, you… you know that Arthur and I-”

“Yes?” Gwaine asks, smirking knowingly. Dear gods have mercy, why must the universe be so cruel?

“Arthur and I weren’t together… did you _think_ that we were?”

Much like the moments leading up to Merlin and Gwaine’s reunion barely twenty minutes ago, Gwaine’s mouth falls into another big, wide ‘O.’

“Ah,” he says, turning to look at the dashboard instead of Merlin, clearly deep in thought, perhaps trying to piece some things together. Or take them apart. “So you and Arthur _weren’t_ …”

“Did his constant admiration and eventual marriage to Gwen say nothing at all?” Merlin asks, suddenly tired.

“Marriage doesn’t always mean love, Merlin, I couldn’t help but think- _we_ couldn’t help but think-”

“What? You think Arthur didn’t love Gwen?" Merlin whispers. "Trust me, he loved her more than anything.”

“I know, I know,” Gwaine mutters, still looking lost in his thoughts. “But I mean, you were always special to him, too. And I just assumed, considering how much time the two of you used to spend behind closed doors and all-”

“Oh, gods,” Merlin wails, and lets his head fall forward on the car horn, hands still gripping the wheel.

Gwaine doesn’t even reach over to stop him. Not even as the horn starts to blare, without pause, right outside of a church.

Merlin doesn’t move for a solid minute.

Some of the churchgoers exiting the building eye the car with nasty looks, but no one approaches the Beetle, and no one shouts at either Merlin or Gwaine to shut the bloody vehicle up.

The car horn continues to blare.

 

**::{}{}{}::**

 

“Well, that was--”

“Awkward? _You’re_ the one who started it.”

“And I apologize,” Gwaine says, solemnly putting a hand to his heart. “But you’ve got to admit it’s an easy mistake to make… okay, okay,” he catches the warning glare burning into him from the front mirror. “It was my mistake. I just thought, from the way you always spoke of him, you had it bad for the man.”

No answer.

Gwaine stares. Merlin hasn’t moved the car an inch since they pulled over, in favor of taking deep breaths to clear his mind while attempting to forgive the universe for throwing such a bizarre past two weeks in his face. He inhales, counts to five, and releases. Then again. And again.

Gwaine waits patiently until Merlin stops with the breathing exercises.

“Jesus, you look like Anne during one of her sessions,” Gwaine points out. Merlin rolls his eyes.

“That bitch,” he mutters, petulant.

“Come again?” says Gwaine.

“Nothing. Let’s… let’s just forget that last part of the conversation.”

“I agree,” Gwaine nods solemnly. Although, from his tone, there might be more to it than just this one conversation, if Merlin's been able to infer anything at all from Gwaine's behaviour in the past. Merlin sighs, and turns the key in the ignition again, revving the old engine to life before they pull away from the curb and into the beginnings of rush hour traffic.

“Bit of radio, maybe?” Merlin suggests, and twists a dial on the panel. The radio crackles to life, and the quality of the sound is surprisingly good for such an old car.

The first channel to come on is the BBC1. Gwaine rolls his eyes, groaning.

_“The upcoming month of May has many astrologers and astronomers alike arguing over a possible planetary alignment, between Mars, Mercury, Venus, Jupiter, and Saturn, an occurrence so rare that it has not been predicted to happen again until the year 2040. Professionals speculate that this incredible event may happen twenty-four years early, and in no less than three weeks. While unusual, authorities from the British Space Agency are looking into it for a plausible explanation. Keep an eye out for…”_

The woman’s voice drones on, and Merlin uses it to drown out any thoughts of his own, especially anything that has to do with the conversation topic of the last five minutes.

The woman continues to talk in her familiar, reassuring Standard English accent for another ten seconds, maybe. Ten seconds is all it takes, before Gwaine breaks.

“This is boring,” he complains.

“Not switching it. Not sorry.”

“Oh, come on, don’t be like that.”

“You insulted my car. You don’t insult the Beetle, Gwaine.”

“I didn’t. I merely looked at it with a certain air of distaste. Here,” Gwaine reaches across his seatbelt to get to the workout bag resting at his feet. After some rummaging around its contents, he pulls out what he’s looking for with a triumphant grin plastered across his face. “Here we are!”

He holds up his smart phone and hits the power button, then rapidly thumbs through a few screens until he gets to a music playlist.

“What we need is a classic. _Perfect_ for a nice little car ride,” Gwaine chuckles and plugs the phone into the car’s Bluetooth, then hits play.

“ _MY ANACONDA DON’T, MY ANACONDA DON’T, MY…”_

Merlin jerks at the sudden noise. His driving slows a good ten kilometers, and his expression goes from shocked to entirely dead in the span of half a second.

“Gwaine.”

“…Yeah.”

Merlin can hear the hesitation in Gwaine’s voice. Then he spots the man’s shoulders shaking up and down in his peripheral vision. Gwaine is laughing.

The bugger.

“What. Is this,” Merlin bites out through gritted teeth.

Voice thick with poorly concealed mirth, Gwaine manages to croak out, “It’s um… this would be _Anaconda,_ featuring Nicki Minaj.” His shoulders continue to shake, although he looks like he’s putting in _some_ effort to control the laughter before he gets kicked out of the car.

“ _NOW THAT’S REAL REAL REAAAL, GUN IN MY PURSE, BITCH…”_ the music continues to blare.

“Gwaine?”

“Yeah...”

Merlin’s knuckles are white at the steering wheel. His jaw is set tight, but no amount of concentration can distract him from the very brazen, American pop song blasting through the car’s newly-restored speakers. “Why is Nicki Minaj on my radio?”

Gwaine’s swallow is audible, even underneath the cacophony of synthesizers and drumbeats. “I erm, might’ve hit the wrong playlist. Meant to go to classic rock… think I hit the workout playlist instead.”

“Yeah. Do something about that, will you?” Merlin suggests, deadly calm.

_“-REAL, THAT HE LOVE MY SEX APPEAL, SAY HE—”_

With that said, Gwaine snatches the phone back, unplugging it from the speakers in a hurry, and thumbs to another screen. A smile pulls at the corner of his mouth, and Merlin glimpses it in his side mirror.

“Still haven’t changed after all these years, I see,” Merlin deadpans.

For a few minutes, they drive on in complete silence.

Gwaine continues to tap at his screen, clearly trying to fix something. With the radio temporarily silenced and room to clear his thoughts, Merlin speeds back up to the normal limit.

“So…” Gwaine says.

“So,” replies Merlin.

Five seconds later, the both of them burst into raucous laughter that nearly shakes the car.

“ _Anaconda_? Really?"Merlin sputters as soon as he gets his voice back. “I’m sorry, that was—holy god, that was good, that was bloody terrific. My _god,”_ He has to correct his alignment after the momentary distraction, shifting the wheel to the left and veering the car back into its rightful lane. Thank god it’s a Sunday and traffic is light. _“_ Okay, _why_ is that on your workout playlist?”

With a wheeze, Gwaine shrugs and answers, matter-of-fact, “Why not?”

That sends them both into another round of snorts and laughter. “Cheeky bugger.”

Wiping away a tear, Gwaine takes a deep breath. Just when it looks like he's settled down, he snorts again. Merlin can't blame him for having a good laugh. “Good to know you’ve still got a sense of humor," Gwaine says. "You had me worried there for a minute, mate.”

Merlin snorts. “What song did you _mean_ to put on?” he asks, glancing over at the man in the passenger seat; still very much real, still very much Gwaine. It’s too much to hope for, but there he is.

“Give me another chance and I’ll show you.” A final tap on the smart phone, and Gwaine eventually pulls up the playlist he was looking for. “How do you feel about AC/DC?”

As it turns out, he doesn’t care how Merlin feels about AC/DC, because he doesn’t wait for an answer before plugging the phone back into the car's aux cord without another word.

A few beats, and then a catchy guitar riff slices through the car. Gwaine grins and bobs his head in time with the music, sweaty hair flying back and forth. The red bandana slips a little, and he reaches up to pull it off, freeing more hair to whip around. Merlin’s nose crinkles when the bandana is stashed into one of the cup holders.

“ _Back in black! I hit the sack! I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back…”_

Gwaine lip syncs along to the lyrics, and even plays air guitar, much to Merlin’s bemusement. It’s quite the sight to see from the side view mirror. Feeling like something’s been lifted off his chest, Merlin has to admit he doesn’t mind the song too much.

“ _Yes I’m back, well I’m back, yes I’m back! Well I’m ba-a-a-ack…”_

The music rocks and rolls and so does Gwaine, while the Volkswagen Beetle zooms down Park View Road with the sun hanging low in the evening sky. Merlin hasn’t felt this good in a long, long time.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I make fun of myself in this chapter? 
> 
> Yes. You bet your ass I did. There always comes a point in the story when we could all just use a little break, right? I hope you're enjoying it thus far, and stay tuned for more! Thanks a ton to everyone leaving kudos and comments, every little thing means the world!
> 
> Update: So, school has started back up. Not only that, but I've taken on a couple new projects (because I'm freaking insane). And unfortunately that means I've gotta take a little break from this fic, which I don't want to do, but sort of need to. I do plan on continuing this come December! And if things go well and I don't feel so busy (ha) then maybe even earlier than that. But stay tuned! If I start a story, I'm gonna finish it ;) Thank you for your patience!


	3. Ages

Merlin stops a few blocks away from his flat. Gwaine looks out the window.

“So where’s your place?” he asks.

With a long-suffering sigh, Merlin turns the key in the ignition to switch the engine off.

He has to tell Gwaine about Mordred. If he doesn’t, this could go south very, very fast.

“Gwaine,” he starts, wishing he didn’t have to ruin a perfectly good moment. “I think I’d like to just take a drive around the neighbourhood. Would that... be all right?” He keeps his expression schooled. If he gives anything away now, he’s not going to get far in explaining everything before Gwaine has a literal heart attack.

“A drive? We just took one.” Gwaine looks at Merlin carefully. “Is… something wrong?”

“What? No! Everything’s fine.” Even Merlin knows he sounds like a complete liar. “I was just thinking…”

Oh no, Gwaine is giving him that look. The one where he looks genuinely concerned for Merlin’s well-being and it makes Merlin feel so _guilty_ that he could ever keep anything from his friend. He has to tell him.

It’s either talk now, or deal with a one-on-one battle to the death in his flat later. Which Merlin will _not_ enjoy getting in between.

And as excellent a fighter as Gwaine had been in his past life, Merlin seriously doubts that a Zumba instructor is going to match up to the likes of Mordred and his magic.

“Y’know what, it’s not really a suggestion,” Merlin says with finality. “We’re going for a drive. I’ve got some stuff to tell you, and you’re… you’re not going to like it.”

“But, but-” Gwaine means to protest, about to open the passenger door to get out of the car, but Merlin quickly switches the gearstick to _Drive_ instead of _Parked._ The doors lock. “The hell—?”

“I promised I would fill you in on some things. I don’t have to go in time order, right?” Merlin counters Gwaine’s protests with an earnest look, and Gwaine eyes Merlin like someone checking to see if the other is bladdered, or possibly high. Or both.

Just when Merlin thinks he’s lost the fight, Gwaine nods. It’s small, but it’s there.

“Thank you.”

Merlin hits the gas again.

******

The magic comes first.

Telling Gwaine about it, that is. How Merlin has magic. _Is_ magic. Or whatever.

Gwaine nods and listens, never interrupting for a second when Merlin comes out with the confession that he’s not only immortal, but a sorcerer. Honestly, Merlin isn’t even surprised that _Gwaine_ isn’t even surprised.

Apparently, Gwaine had sort of suspected a thing or two, when they’d gone to rescue Arthur on his quest back in the days of Uther.

Getting rid of wyverns? Gwaine wasn’t that thick.

Then Merlin tells him about his life.

Well, long story short… he makes a long story short. He reveals that he has not - not even once - died and come back as a reincarnation. He’s never been reborn like Gwaine. Or like Mordred (but he doesn’t bring him up just yet).

He talks about some of the people he’s met, a couple of the wars he’s witnessed. Or fought in. Or nearly died in.

Merlin doesn’t feel much like going into detail - he’s sure Gwaine’s taken a history class or two in this lifetime.

It’s funny, when Merlin steals a glance at the passenger side he can swear he sees tears in Gwaine’s eyes. He’s not sure he’s ever seen Gwaine cry before. But he doesn’t say anything.

But then he gets to the part about Mordred and… well, sometimes you just have to bite the bullet, don’t you?

Merlin confesses everything. About Mordred, and about his current, ah, _living arrangements._

Apparently that is the straw, _the_ straw, that does it for Gwaine.

Merlin ends up driving in a circle around his block nearly fifteen times in the span of twenty minutes before the man in the passenger seat finally simmers down.

“That fucker is living under your roof,” Gwaine hisses. His body language is one big sign that says “ _piss off.”_ He looks ready to fight the stop sign, the way he glares out the front window while his arms fold tightly across his chest.

“Again with the swearing,” Merlin mutters. He knew this was coming. He still doesn’t like it, though.

“As if you haven’t said worse shite than I have a million times in your fucked up life,” Gwaine says. He sounds so… hurt.

Merlin hates that this is what his life has come to - that he’s actually living under the same roof as someone he once (and maybe still does?) consider his enemy. Someone who killed innocent people, and who killed the one that mattered most.

Is Gwaine being a little dramatic? Maybe. Maybe not.

And really, is he wrong?

Merlin has nothing to say to that.

The drive falls silent, for a little bit, before Merlin murmurs softly, “It is pretty fucked up, isn’t it?”

He can hear Gwaine’s breath hitch in an instant. “I’m… sorry,” he says, and he sounds almost nervous, swallowing before he adds, “I just meant—”

“I know. It’s fine.”

Another round of quiet breaths and soft crackling over the radio, where the volume’s been lowered so that Merlin can just faintly make out the sound of a song that he’s pretty sure might be by Queen, but also might be by a new band with a lead singer who just sounds a lot like Freddie Mercury. Why are they even on the classic rock station?

Oh, right. Gwaine had switched the station right after his and Merlin’s somewhat _heated_ debate over whether or not Mordred’s head should still be attached to his body.

(Cue a livid Gwaine, viciously cranking the radio dial to a rock station just in time to catch the opening of _“Mr. Brightside”_ by the Killers.)

Commence full volume radio and one twenty-minute, not-so-silent silent treatment.

Merlin’s only able to still talk because he’s pretty sure at least _one_ of his eardrums is still intact afterwards.

He can’t really blame Gwaine for the reaction, but come on. He does need his eardrums.

It’s not like Merlin trusts Mordred - far from it - but he’s got little choice but to allow him into his life, if only so that he can be certain the man won’t go around unsupervised. Y’know, plotting murder and all that. Better safe than sorry.

To be fair, yeah, Mordred’s cooled down. That much has been made pretty clear during the past few weeks he’s been living in Merlin’s flat, and after a thousand years you start to learn that yelling and breaking things and going _ballistic_ get you nowhere.

Merlin understands that it’s better to ride this one out than fight it out like someone from the Middle Ages.

Those years were bad enough as they were.

Let Gwaine have his tantrum. God knows Merlin can be the voice of reason _sometimes._

“When we go back to my place, do you swear not to chop Mordred’s head off?”

“You saying you haven’t got any decent knives in the kitchen?” Gwaine asks, completely serious.

Merlin sighs very heavily and hunches over the steering wheel like an old man, very tired and growing quite sick of seeing the same shops pass them by for the twenty-first time in row.

People might start to get suspicious of the bright red Beetle circling the block like an undercover police.

“All right, I won’t try to chop his head off,” Gwaine mutters, crossing his arms like a petulant child. “But I’m clocking him damn good for the shit he put us through.”

Merlin snorts quietly. “No need,” he says, “already did.”

“You did what?”

Merlin can see Gwaine’s incredulous look from the mirrors. “I said, I already did.”

“Already did _what_?”

“Clocked the shit out of him.” Merlin doesn’t turn to look at Gwaine’s expression, although he can be sure it’s absolutely brilliant. “Shiner on his cheek and a nice one on his jaw.” When he does catch Gwaine, mouth agape, he shrugs and keeps his eyes pointedly on the road. “What, you don’t think I was angry as hell too? You’re not the only one who hates that bugger.”

“So you _don’t_ actually like him?” Is he being serious?

“God no,” Merlin insists for the sake of clarity. “But I do need to keep an eye on him.”

“That’s your reasoning, is it?”

“He’s mellowed out as far as I can tell and I mean, as much as I hate to say it, he doesn’t seem bad enough to warrant the reaction I told you to avoid,” he meets Gwaine’s eyes purposefully, “when you see him in person. He’s still... Mordred, sort of.”

“What do you mean, _sort_ of?”

“He’s come back a bunch of times, apparently.”

“So’ve I.”

“More than ten times, I mean,” Merlin explains. They pull up to the stoplight for the twenty-first time in a row.

Merlin takes advantage of the brief moment and leans back in his chair, drawing in a breath.

“He’s been through some stuff, too.”

“Oh, that’s rich,” Gwaine scoffs, sounding like a bratty teenager mouthing off to their parents. “So you’re saying I should go easy because he’s a perfect angel who’s seen the error of his ways, instead of the psychopathic prick who killed…” he doesn’t finish. Merlin can’t blame him.

“No,” Merlin says. “But he’s apparently done his penance, claims he’s not killed another soul in all his lifetimes.”

Gwaine gives a little _tuh!_ The noise people typically make when they’ve decided to discredit everything you’ve just said.

“You’re saying you believe him, then.”

“I’m saying he’s not so much as laid a finger on me since I saw him the first time,” says Merlin. “Not even when I hit him. Which I s’pose I should apologize for—”

“The _hell_ you will!” Gwaine sputters, raising his voice again. Merlin kind of wishes he could crank the volume up on the radio, preferring heavy metal-induced deafness to being lectured by one of his best friends. “Aren’t you forgetting what he did? What he indirectly did to _me?_ His fucking bitch of a girlfriend and the woman who killed our friend and our _king_ had me tortured to fuckin’ _death."_

Right, okay, so that's a fair enough point.

Merlin doesn’t have it in him to interject, and then the light turns green, so his focus is no longer quite so localized on being shouted at.

Gwaine seems content enough to wave his arms around in the air, knocking the roof of the car with his arm a couple times while he goes on. “That bastard outed you, I know it. who else could have told Morgana who you really were?”

“I know he did,” says Merlin, sounding resigned. He looks and sounds like he’s already accepted things as they are. In that moment, it’s clear as day that he’s aged far more than Gwaine, even if they’ve technically both been around since the same century.

His foot eases on the pedal as they come up on his building again.

Gwaine starts to get the message, but Merlin goes on. “I’ll forgive him when I’m ready to, but we can’t go about life letting grudges eat away at us, Gwaine.”

“Does that include the one you’ve been holding against yourself?”

Merlin’s knuckles go white at the wheel. Thin-lipped, he bites out, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you don’t,” Gwaine murmurs, but it sounds as though he’s too tired to start another fight. Maybe later, but not now. “Forget I said anything.”

Merlin knows he won’t.

He pulls up to the curbside in silence, and they both unbuckle their seatbelts distractedly.

Merlin gets out first, rolling his shoulders as he turns up his collar against the wind. Gwaine follows and shuts the passenger door behind him harder than he means to. Merlin lets it slide.

Breathing deeply, he leads the way in.

******

Merlin swings open the door to his flat to find a scene that he could not make up on his own, not even if he fucking wanted to.

Max and Mordred are rifling through the pages of what looks like a Betty Crocker cookbook, probably discovered amongst the piles of others in one of Merlin’s kitchen cupboards.

Both are wearing aprons tied around their waists, and both are singing along to a Beatles song, which plays happily from a smartphone connected to the audio jack of Merlin’s old radio, sitting on top of the fridge. _“Penny Lane.”_

Is he hallucinating, or is Merlin actually seeing this?

The two of them are baking… something.

Merlin goes first, standing in the doorway with squared shoulders. He clears his throat, and Max turns around.

Mordred’s preoccupied with mixing something in a big metal mixing bowl he seems to have conjured from one of Merlin’s cupboards. His jeans have flour on them and he’s grinning. So is Max.

Merlin briefly takes note of how well the two seem to be getting along already.

At least _some_ one has a heart that forgives easily. God bless Max, honestly.

Gwaine stands just behind Merlin, stewing in the hallway with his arms crossed. Merlin swallows. He’s not sure this is the best idea.

Still, they’ve come this far…

“Merlin, you’re back!” Max’s grin stretches wider when he catches sight of him. “We were starting to wonder… who’ve you got with you?” he cocks his head and glances past Merlin, where Gwaine waits, unmoving. Merlin follows him to look over his shoulder. Gwaine doesn’t look at him.

“A very good friend of mine,” Merlin says, quiet. Turning back to Max, he adds, “A very _old_ friend of mine.” He hears a snort from the hallway.

Appearing to just now notice Merlin’s arrival, Mordred stops whisking whatever’s in the metal bowl and looks around to the doorway.

His arm slows to a stop.

There’s flour on his face as well as his jeans. He catches sight of Gwaine, lurking just past the entryway in the dim hallway light. The dimpled smile fades away.

The tension is... _palpable_.

For a beat, every person in the room is absolutely silent.

Then, reluctantly, Merlin steps to the side and Gwaine is suddenly the center of attention as he stands stiffly in the doorway, like a soldier about to be sent off to the front lines.

A memory of Gwaine in full armour and a crimson cloak replaces the man in gym clothes and windbreaker for a second, before Merlin snaps back to the present.

Gwaine takes a step forward just as Mordred takes a step away from the kitchen counter. They’re far enough away from each other that no one can throw any punches, but that wouldn’t stop Mordred from using magic - or Gwaine from charging head-on to close the distance.

Merlin resists the urge to insert himself between the two men, just so this doesn’t end in bloodshed.

Gwaine looks ready for war.

Mordred looks ready to cry.

“This is Gwaine,” Merlin says, but Max is the only one who benefits from the introduction.

Mordred already knows the man standing in that doorway and it’s clear from the look on his face, all too clear, that he wishes it was anyone _but._

Max comes forward politely, wiping his hands on the apron with a red Starfleet insignia in the top, righthand corner. He strides through the entryway between the kitchenette and the living area. Max being… well, _Max,_ he doesn’t seem to notice any unease, at least not at first.

Getting off most of the flour from his palms, he sticks out a mostly clean hand for Gwaine.

Gwaine takes it and nods, equally polite. “Gwaine,” he says, though he doesn’t much need to.

“Max. Max Hornith,” Max says. “Any friend of Merlin’s is a friend of mine. We were just baking a cake.”

“What’s the occasion?” Gwaine asks, politely curious for the sake of keeping the conversation away from the very large elephant in the room.

Mordred stands frozen by the counter.

“Merlin didn’t tell you?” Max asks with a twinkle in his eye. He looks at Merlin, but Merlin can’t understand why. A cake? What sort of occasion…

Oh, right-

“It’s Merlin’s birthday,” Max says, grinning. He cocks his head in the direction of the kitchenette, where the mixing bowl sits dejectedly near Mordred’s elbow. The entire countertop is covered in flour and spackled with chocolate cake batter. “Merlin, you didn’t bother tell your friend what day it was?”

“Didn’t bother to remember, t’be honest,” Merlin mumbles, rubbing the back of his neck. It’s not like he _enjoys_ keeping track of every single year.

Gwaine turns to look at him with wide eyes. “Can’t be- is it really?” he says, glancing at Merlin for confirmation. “Oh, s’February.” He nods like he’s just remembered. “I ehm…” he shuffles uncomfortably in the middle of the living room. “I’m sorry. I meant- I mean, happy birthday.”

“Thanks,” Merlin says, but he doesn’t feel too happy about it. It’s just means another year come and gone, to him, with nothing accomplished other than learning a bit of yoga and seeing a Golden Globe nominated film in the cinema. Uneventful, boring, practically pointless.

Just up until Mordred. And now Gwaine.

Less pointless, now. Certainly less boring.

For another few seconds, they all just sort of stand there awkwardly, saying nothing.

Mordred looks the worst off, flour and chocolate all over his plain white apron. His face is ashen, his lips tight. His eyes look sunken and a little flinty. To be honest, the flour looks like it’s got more colour than Mordred’s cheeks.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Gwaine sees it and brings up a hand to stop him.

Mordred’s mouth snaps shut. He looks miserable.

Gwaine doesn’t look any better.

“What you did… I don’t want to forgive you,” Gwaine forces out, almost a whisper, like it hurts to even speak. “I _shouldn’t_ forgive you.”

Max’s brow furrows and his head whips around from Gwaine to Mordred, and back again.

Merlin waits, holding his breath. He catches the confusion on Max’s face, and when his son shoots him a look Merlin only shakes his head. _Just let them talk._

He wonders if talking will lead to arguing. If arguing will lead to something… worse.

But it’s not Merlin’s fight, so he prays it doesn’t end that way.

“But,” Gwaine says, sounding strained the entire time, “But fighting won’t do anyone any good, and I certainly don’t feel like watching anyone die again, so…” the look on his face is a cross between _someone’s just shoved a brick up my arse_ and _I would very much like to stab myself in the face._ Squaring his shoulders, he nods, maybe to reassure himself, or to reassure everyone else in the room that he won’t be socking anyone in the jaw.

Not today at least.

Mordred nods back. His expression remains unchanged, but at least he doesn’t seem as ready to bolt for the nearest exit. He waits.

Max really looks like he wants to ask _what the bloody hell is going on?_

After a pause, Gwaine’s gaze wanders to Merlin. Merlin catches the look in his friend’s eyes. He gets it.

Gwaine is doing this for him. Keeping calm for _him._ If not for Merlin, these two would probably be at each other’s throats right now. Merlin keeps his expression calm, but he nods a barely-there nod.

Something in Gwaine’s eyes tells Merlin he’s gotten the message, before he turns to face the man in the kitchen again.

He clears his throat and waits for Mordred to pull off the dish towel hanging from his shoulder, laying it on the counter. Everyone seems to be waiting for him to make the next move. With what looks like a lot of effort and no small amount of nausea, Mordred trudges forward.

“A truce,” Gwaine says quietly. His expression is stony, but his voice is toneless.

Some of Mordred’s terror seems to melt away.

The tight lips suddenly tug into a very genuine, very relieved smile. With a hesitant step away from the counter, he leaves the kitchenette and shuffles halfway across the the shag carpet, leaving some space between him and Gwaine.

Gwaine doesn’t back away, which seems to boost Mordred’s confidence. He extends a hand.

A beat of silence again.

Gwaine just looks at the outstretched hand, at first, possibly wondering if what he’s seeing is real.

Perhaps he’s expecting Mordred to lash out? To think back on the history they have, both as comrades in arms and as enemies?

“A clean slate,” Mordred says, sounding something like hopeful. His hand doesn’t waver in the air between them.

And just like he did with Max, Gwaine takes the hand and shakes. “S’pose so,” he says.

The tension evaporates as quickly as it arrived.

As soon as their hands fall back to their sides, Gwaine takes a step back, and Mordred makes an indiscernible noise before heading back to the kitchenette to get back to work. He obviously doesn’t feel like playing catch up any more than Gwaine does.

Then Gwaine rounds on Max, who looks taken aback by… everything.

“And… sorry, where do you fit into all this, exactly?” Gwaine asks.

Merlin knows he’s not trying to be rude, but sometimes Gwaine isn’t very tactical about things.

Max doesn’t seem to mind, shaking his head when Merlin frowns. “No worries.” He flashes Gwaine a smile. “I’m his son,” he says, canting his head towards Merlin, who just stands awkwardly with his hands in the pockets of his jacket.

He avoids eye contact when Gwaine turns to look at him as if silently asking, _Is he pulling my effing leg, or…?_

When Gwaine sees Merlin’s reaction, it’s obvious that Max is telling the truth. His lips purse, not frowning, just thoughtful. And, of course, stunned. He gives Max a once over.

Something crosses his expression. Like he’s suddenly noticing all the little similarities between his friend and this stranger.

“Ah,” Gwaine says. “All… right then.”

Max raises an eyebrow. His smile falters. “I was hoping for a more interesting reaction,” he says.

Shrugging, Gwaine mutters, “Yeah, well, s’not really the weirdest thing to happen to me today, mate.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Mordred agrees from the kitchen, puttering around as he searches for something. Everyone looks around.

Mordred notices everyone staring and immediately turns red. “Ignore me,” he says, dipping his head to peer into a cabinet below the sink. Maybe to look for a pan, but more likely to hide his face from the three other people giving him the stink eye from the living room.

“Will do,” mutters Gwaine, barely hiding a smirk at Mordred’s evident discomfort.

But now it’s Merlin’s turn to get stared at. When Gwaine looks at him again, he knows he’s not going to like what he hears.

Sure enough, Gwaine shakes his head back and forth. “You’re lucky I like him.” He sticks a thumb over his shoulder towards Max, who snorts, crossing his arms. His green t-shirt is coated with more flour, along with some old splotches of red paint, making him look like he missed Christmas and decided to join in a little too late.

Max’s hair has grown longer, curling below his ears and the nape of his neck. He needs a shave.

Merlin can’t help the tug in his heart that comes from the sudden image resurfacing in his head, of Max - Well, Max looks a lot like Merlin’s father. Max looks like Balinor.

“I’d say you should know better, and that you’re supposed to use protection,” Gwaine says with a knowing smirk, “but I feel like that’d be too hypocritical of me.” Merlin gives him his best scowl.

Yeah, things are going to be all right.

Max claps his hands together, getting everyone’s attention. “Right,” he says. “So, you’ll be staying for dinner then?” he points at Gwaine.

Gwaine holds up his hands in front of him. “Ahh, right. Merlin,” he looks around, “Don’t mean to be rude but… I think it’s be best if I got myself home. Have some, ah, things to do.”

“You’re more than welcome to stay,” Merlin says, but there’s something Gwaine isn’t saying. “You sure you don’t want to at least stick around for cake?” He tries for his best, winning smile.

“Nah, I’m all gross and sweaty. Think I’d do better with a shower and some… time. To think.” Gwaine’s eyes flick to the kitchen for a glimmer of a second, before they meet Merlin’s eyes again.

Getting the message, Merlin nods.

With a small laugh, Gwaine reaches out and grabs Merlin’s shoulders, squeezing it tightly. “I’m glad we finally crossed paths. Don’t think I’ll be out of your hair so easily.” He cocks his head to the side, all warmth.

Merlin smiles.

“I’ll be back tomorrow with a birthday gift. And more questions.” Gwaine wags a finger in Merlin’s face. “You magical little bastard.”

He and Merlin laugh together.

It hurts, a little. It’s not like old times, not everyone is here and god only knows when - or _if_ \- any of the others will ever show up, or if it just wasn’t meant to be.

But Merlin doesn’t believe that this is just coincidence. He still doesn’t believe in those.

“Did you need a lift home?” Max asks while Gwaine zips up his windbreaker.

“I can drive you back,” Merlin starts to offer, but Gwaine shoots him a look. Merlin gets the message right away: Gwaine would rather he stayed and kept a watchful eye on Mordred.

“I can do it, it’s no trouble,” Max insists.

Gwaine accepts the offer.

He goes to follow Max out the door, but not before he gives Merlin one last look. A promise. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Swear.” Guilt is still present in his eyes but he’s clearly _trying,_ for the sake of keeping things as un-confrontational as possible.

Merlin’s never seen such a thing from Gwaine, of all people, but he’s not going to question _that._

Merlin knows that Gwaine always keeps his promises.

******

Max returns with a grin on his face.

“That’s some friend you got there,” he says to Merlin as he shrugs off his coat. “Funny bloke, plays good music. Not bad-looking, either.”

“I’m going to forget you said that,” Merlin says.

Max shrugs, holding out his hands like he doesn’t believe Merlin would actually contradict him on this.

“Well he _is.”_

“Yeah? Well you’re too old for him.”

 _“_ I’m just saying is all.”

“Careful,” warns Merlin, “Tell him what you said before and he might try to get in your pants.”

“Promise?”

“ _Piss off,_ Max.” He grabs the nearest throw pillow and uses it for the purpose it was meant for.

Not for the first time, Max gets a pillow to the face. "You need to learn to respect your elders," Max scolds mockingly as he tosses the pillow back on the sofa.

"Just because you look older doesn't mean you  _are_ older."

"Oho! I'm more mature than you by a  _long_ shot."

They both hear a snort from the kitchen.

Merlin looks into the kitchen just in time to see Mordred setting the temperature on the oven.

“Okay,” Mordred says, rolling up his sleeves, which are already coated in various cake ingredients, “ _Now_ I can see how you two are related.”

Merlin ushers Max back to the kitchen with a firm shove, receiving a grumble. In some ways, Max is still the insufferable uni kid from the day Merlin first moved in.

“Thank you for remembering my birthday,” Merlin says, feeling a bit sheepish.

“I’m just surprised _we_ remembered before _you_ did,” Mordred says, clucking his tongue before lifts up his chocolate-covered whisk. Then he _licks_ the damned thing like a dog going after peanut butter. Merlin wrinkles his nose.

“You’d better not be sticking that back in the cake batter.”

“Okay, but how is it that we remembered, but _you_ forgot?” Max asks curiously.

“Lapse in memory.” Merlin shrugs like it’s no big deal.

Mordred smirks. “Guess you really are an old man after all.”

“Shut up.”

It doesn’t do anything to wipe away the smirk on Mordred’s face, though. He practically skips back to the oven to make sure it’s heated to the right temperature.

The sound of metal pots crashing against each other tells Merlin that Max is still looking for a pan to actually bake the cake _in_. He smiles to himself.

Figures that Max wouldn’t want to use magic for this.

 

When Merlin returns from a shower of his own, Mordred’s pulling a cake pan out of the oven. The sight of Mordred in Star Trek themed oven mitts is just another item to check off the list of things Merlin never thought he’d get to see in his lifetime. He gets to work icing the cake, and Max pores over a sheet of spells he’d had brought with him, lounging in the La-Z-Boy.

“Just some fun stuff for a special day,” Max says cheekily as he taps a finger over a spell near the bottom. “This one makes indoor fireworks.”

“The neighbors will hear us.” Merlin doesn’t add that casting fireworks _in the flat_ will probably lead to unwanted explosions _in the flat._

“I can cast a silencing charm, no problem,” Mordred cuts in.

He looks back to his old self, dimples and all, seemingly trying his best to forget what just happened half an hour ago. Merlin’s not too sure about how tomorrow will go if those two have to see each other again.

And they’ll _have_ to, sooner or later.

“Think I’ll go and wash up before we have supper, yeah?” He holds out his flour-caked arms and chocolate-speckled fingers for emphasis.

“What _is_ for supper?” Merlin asks, because he hadn’t seen anything cooking in the kitchen other than the chocolate cake. With his luck he’ll probably be finding cake batter gods knows where, weeks after this.

The grimace from Mordred and sheepish look from Max tell Merlin that they hadn’t given supper so much as a thought, until just now.

He rolls his eyes.

“Canned soup and toast it is,” he says. He doesn’t mind, really. The cake had been thoughtful enough. He hadn’t been expecting anything at all, so it was really the thought that counted.

“Or we work a little magic to make something _special_ ,” Max says with a wink, waggling his fingers at Merlin, who sidles away from the kitchen and towards the hall.

“You can do whatever you want,” he says, and immediately regrets it when he sees the matching smiles on the faces of the two men in the kitchenette, aprons still tied around their waists like five-year-olds playing house. “Although I would advise against fireworks.” He eyes Max especially. “Please.”

He doesn’t wait for an answer before he turns back around to leave the flat. He’s just realized he’d forgotten the groceries in the car.

******

Max leaves around two in the morning, after a few beers and another slice of cake.

Mordred probably eats about three slices, but like Merlin, he sticks to tea and water instead of beer.

There’s leftover cake. When he catches Mordred reaching for a slice the next morning at breakfast, Merlin smacks his hand away. Mordred looks at him in horror and utter disappointment before eyeing the cake with a glimmer of desire.

“Not for you,” is all Merlin says, expecting Mordred to come to some sort of conclusion himself.

Sure enough, Gwaine shows up that day as promised, knocking at the door sometime around noon.

At that point, Mordred’s gone to his room for a bit. He knows when he’s not wanted, and he knows damn well when he’s pushing his luck. After all there’s still plenty of room on his face for a little more black and blue.

When Merlin opens the door, Gwaine holds up a shiny red gift bag and grins.

His hairs looks neater, combed instead of standing up in some places because of exercise-induced sweat. It’s a little shorter than Merlin remembers but maybe it’s just because he wasn’t paying attention yesterday. He’s also dressed in clothing that _isn’t_ neon in colour or revealing enough for chest hair, so Merlin thanks the gods for that one.

The stubble remains, however, and apparently so does his sense of humour.

Merlin takes the gift bag with a thank you and invites Gwaine in.

Gwaine takes a seat on the couch and leans back, watching Merlin in earnest. He nods at the gift bag. “Go on, then,” he says.

Merlin sits in the chair across from the sofa and sets the bag on his lap, before reaching a hand in.

The first thing he pulls out is a card.

The front says “Happy Birthday,” with the classy addition of the words “ya wanker” scrawled in huge lettering just underneath. Merlin chuckles.

“I like it already,” he says.

“You’d better. Now look at the rest.”

Intrigued, Merlin sets the card down on the coffee table and reaches back into the bag, this time drawing out a tin of tea. Merlin checks what kind: earl grey.

“Max,” Gwaine explains. “We talked a lot during the ride back to my place. Told me it was your favorite.”

“It is,” says Merlin. He reaches back in the bag, because it feels like there’s something else in there.

The sound of someone sitting down on a mattress and typing at the keys of a laptop reminds them both of Mordred’s presence, just two rooms away.

Gwaine shifts on the sofa. His face looks strained.

“He’s not going to come out until you leave,” Merlin says quietly.

Gwaine nods. “Good. I don’t want to look at him.”

“You may have to sooner or later.”

Gwaine blows air through his nose and shrugs. “Just open your present, will you?” he says, although his tone is not unkind. He probably doesn’t want to make a big deal out of the current situation.

So far, he’s taken everything well in stride. Merlin is impressed with how he handled their first meeting just yesterday, Merlin’s whole confession about the magic, and then on top of it all, seeing Mordred again.

Yeah, impressed is putting it lightly. Gwaine’s been taking it like a champ.

Humouring him, Merlin dives back into the gift bag.

The last thing he pulls out is all folded up - a t-shirt. He unfolds it on his lap and holds it up so that he can get a good look at the front. It’s faded, but it’s still easily readable with the big, black letters against a white background.

**The Beatles**

**1969 Tour**

Merlin’s face breaks into a wide grin. “A band t-shirt?” he asks with a laugh. He holds it up to himself. It looks like it should fit him nicely.

“Max also said you liked those,” Gwaine says. “Found that in a thrift shop. I almost thought about going online and buying you one of those wands from Harry Potter, but…” he shrugs.

Merlin laughs again. It’s a great gift. “Thanks, Gwaine. I love it.”

“Glad you like it,” Gwaine answers. He looks more serious, though. Too serious for celebrating a birthday. He probably doesn’t even know how old Merlin is, although truthfully Merlin kind of prefers it that way.

His eyes narrow at Gwaine while he folds the shirt back up and sets it aside.

“What’s up?” he asks.

For a moment, Gwaine is quiet. Like he’s thinking over his phrasing before he speaks.

“So…” he begins, then sighs and shifts again on the sofa. “The questions that I wanted to ask.”

Oh, right. Merlin almost forgot about that.

“Ask away,” he says before he can stop himself.

He owes it to Gwaine, though. The guy already held back a _lot_ when he saw Mordred, and that was because Merlin had asked him to keep cool about it. Gwaine had kept his word. Now Merlin would keep his. “Ask me anything.”

“Have you seen any of the others at all?” Gwaine asks, almost too eagerly. “The other knights? Gaius?” Then he swallows, and his face darkens. “Morgana?”

Merlin’s breath catches. He shakes his head no to all of them.

With a sigh, Gwaine looks back down at the coffee table. “Figured as much,” he mutters quietly. He looks at least a little relieved, too. Probably because he’d been worried that, if anyone had returned, it would be Morgana.

I.e. the very woman who had killed him thirteen hundred years ago.

“There is something you should know, though,” Merlin says, a thought striking him. Gwaine looks up.

Apparently Merlin doesn’t look pleased about something, because Gwaine asks uneasily, “Am I going to like this or..?”

Biting his lip, Merlin shakes his head again. “Your friend from the health facility. Anne.”

“Yeah, you told me you knew her,” Gwaine says, but he pauses. “Who… ahh, fuck.” Merlin grimaces. Gwaine rests his head against the wall behind the sofa and shuts his eyes. “Anne isn’t her real name, is it?” he says, already sounding resigned to the fact that nothing, absolutely nothing is as it seems. Of course “Anne” wouldn’t be any different. “So? Who is she?”

Merlin swallows, not sure how to put it. So he puts it as matter-of-factly as possible.

“Her name is Niviane. She’s the daughter of Nimueh.”

“I know that name.” Gwaine opens his eyes again, staring at the ceiling as he thinks. “Where do I know that name?”

“Nimueh was the sorceress who helped Ygraine Pendragon get with child,” Merlin says. In between sentences, his teeth worry at his lower lip.

His thoughts have trailed off to what Niviane told him yesterday, about Morgana. _Maybe she’s not back yet, but at this rate anything’s possible,_ Merlin thinks. He’s worried.

“Merlin?”

“Right, right. Yeah, um, well, Uther blamed Nimueh for the death of his wife, and ever since then Nimueh held a grudge against Uther. She also tried to kill Arthur, later on. So I…” he trails off.

Gwaine understands what Merlin doesn’t say. The silence hangs in the air between them a few moments. “So you killed her,” he finishes for Merlin, without a hint of judgment in his voice. Merlin nods gratefully. “And Niviane’s what, come back for revenge?”

“That’s what I thought at first,” says Merlin. His lips purse into a thoughtful pout without him realizing it.

Gwaine waves a hand in the air. “Wait, wait wait, what do you mean, _at first?_ You saw her before? When?”

“About a century ago if my memory serves right.”

Still not understanding, Gwaine shakes his head and looks at Merlin for something more, something that might explain all of this a little better. “So why’s she here, if not to kill you?”

“She claims she’s fighting for the same things I want,” Merlin mutters with a roll of his eyes. “Peace, equality for magic users. Unity. All that good stuff.”

“So she’s a good guy?”

“The flying fuck if I know,” Merlin snaps, but then immediately regrets it when Gwaine raises his eyebrows, surprised. “I’m sorry,” he says, taking a deep breath.

He could go for a cup of earl grey. “How about I make tea, and then I explain?”

“I could go for a cuppa,” Gwaine says without missing a beat.

It’s clear that something is eating away at Merlin.

At the same time, Gwaine doesn’t believe he’ll get much more out of his friend without the proper motivation. If making tea is what quells some of that anxiety, he's more than happy to accommodate.

******

Merlin describes his first meeting with Niviane, the one that took place a little over a hundred years ago.

Gwaine seems more surprised that the woman wears lipstick than with the fact that she’s a sorceress. He blows over his tea to cool it as he listens to Merlin relay the events of yesterday, while Gwaine had been off fetching his bike.

Hearing about Niviane’s vision confuses him just as much as it had confused, and still confuses, Merlin.

“I don’t know what to make of it,” Merlin says when he’s finished. Gwaine frowns.

“Me neither. Sorry mate.”

“It’s not _your_ fault,” Merlin says. He holds his mug with both hands. It’s cooled, but he doesn’t sip. “I just… I dunno. I don’t know what’s so special about this year, but so many things seem to have happened in the past three weeks.”

“You’re telling me,” Gwaine grumbles into his mug. “I’m still trying to figure out what type of bloody curtains to put up in my new flat. It’s hell, moving to a new place. These past few _years_ have been a blur to me.”

Merlin laughs in agreement. “I’ve been living in this apartment for the past thirty-odd years, but I know exactly what you mean.”

“The question is... where do we go from here?” Gwaine asks softly.

Bed springs squeak two rooms away. That’d be Mordred again.

Setting down his mug on the table, Gwaine rolls his shoulders, sighing. “Should probably get going soon,” he says. “I’ve got work at two.”

“Two?” Merlin’s shoulders slump. That means they’ve only got about twenty more minutes to talk.

“But I can come back,” Gwaine adds quickly. “It’s just…” his gaze slides towards the hallway, to the room where Mordred is currently hiding away. “Maybe we can do more catching up when we’re somewhere that isn’t here, yeah? We can chat over lunch tomorrow. If you like.”

“Sounds like a good plan.”

“One more question, though.”

“Sure thing,” Merlin says.

“Do you... do you think Arthur is going to come back?” he asks.

It’s like getting slapped across the face and then being asked if he knows the reason why.

“I… I don’t know,” Merlin answers honestly. But he thinks about Mordred, about Gwaine, and about Niviane’s vision. “But there’s no reason he shouldn’t now.” He sounds more confident than he feels.

It does the job anyway. Gwaine smiles to himself.

“I s’pose that’s true. After all, that royal prick always did like one-upping me.” Gwaine chuckles. His eyes have gone somewhere far away. “If I’m already here, I’m sure he can’t be too far behind, eh?”

Merlin wants to believe that.

"The others will come back. Hell, I'd bet my life on it."

Even after Gwaine leaves, he wants to believe it.

******

His heart feels heavier than an ocean liner made of lead. Merlin stares.

“You’re alive,” he breathes.

He’s on his knees, cowering like a child again.

"So powerful,” Arthur murmurs, a scowl on his lips. He gazes down at Merlin in contempt, eyeing him like an insect about to be squashed beneath a boot. “You have so much power and yet you let me die. You could have done more. You should have done more."

"I tried. I did, I _did!_  Please Arthur—"

It was just a nightmare. It was over, it wasn't real. But it felt so real.

It feels too real.

When he wakes up in a cold sweat, it’s Mordred who stands in the doorway with a mug of tea and a look that says, _join me in the kitchen._

Merlin can’t shake off the familiar feeling of waking up from a horrible nightmare.

 

“We haven’t really talked, have we?” Mordred says, once Merlin takes a seat across the table.

The little light above the stove is on, but the main light is off. Kitchens at three in the morning always feel like liminal spaces to Merlin. The lightbulb is old and has a warm, amber glow, fuzzing over the kitchen with optimal light on only one side of the room.

Mordred’s already made an extra cup of tea, and it sits in front of Merlin like an invitation. Merlin wonders if he has a problem, or if it’s normal to be drinking this much tea, even if he does live in England.

Merlin raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?” he asks. “We’ve talked plenty.”

“But we haven’t _talked_ talked,” Mordred says, like that’s cleared everything up.

Mordred’s fingers tap against table. He looks pensive, a little tired but not as weary as he did the other day.

“I heard you talking about Niviane,” he says. His voice is quiet, but at 3 a.m. with half the world asleep, everything sounds too loud.

Merlin looks down into his tea, which steams hot, scented air into his nostrils. It smells strong. He feels tired.

“And?”

Before Mordred can reply, he’s interrupted by a knock at the door.

Merlin excuses himself, disregarding the tea on the table. “Be right back,” he mumbles as he rubs at his eyes. He yawns and reaches for the latch to unlock their front door.

He opens it.

Merlin isn't too focused on the man standing outside, still rubbing at his eyes and not caring if he looks rude because _honestly, who knocks at someone’s door this early in the morning?_

“So sorry, but did someone here call-?” The man takes one look at Merlin and stops mid-sentence. His eyes are wide.

“M-Merlin?”

Merlin is suddenly wide awake. And all he can think is, _I was right. Gwaine was right._

He can scarcely believe it himself.

“Who is it?” Mordred calls from the kitchen. He leans over the back of his chair to get a look. He catches sight of the man in the doorway and spills his tea all over the front of his shirt, but he doesn’t even notice.

Merlin hasn’t taken his eyes off the man the entire time. He huffs a disbelieving laugh as his mouth falls open.

“Lancelot.”


	4. Take the Keys

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I suppose it's been quite a while since I updated, huh? 
> 
> Since my last update I've written a little over 70k words for a different fic (different pseud, too), and I've also started back up with school, so it's been a lot. This'll probably not be updated for quite some time, but I want you guys to know that I always have this fic in the back of my mind. I hope you've been enjoying the ride, and want you all to know that the support has been so incredible and kind. I also realize that there's a huge change in writing quality from chapter 1 part 1, to this chapter of part 2. And it's flattering that so many people have stuck with it regardless of the awkward pacing and stilted language starting out. I know my writing has progressed these past couple of years and it's been incredibly rewarding to write this story, because it was something I wanted to see but could never find. 
> 
> That said, here's chapter 4! So much love to all of you.

Merlin remembers the last time he saw Lancelot.

It wasn’t when the Dorocha were threatening Camelot. Or when Lance stepped through the veil, turning around to give one last goodbye - one last smile before he was gone. Of course, Merlin had assumed it would be for forever.

The last time he’d seen Lancelot wasn’t when he was brought back as a shade, only to be arrested - and later, to take his own life after sitting alone in a dark prison cell. His spirit had been broken, his body used and then abandoned. He hadn’t deserved any of it.

...Who _does_?

The last time Merlin had seen Lancelot was when he buried him. When he sent the man’s body off in a funeral pyre fit for a knight, whispering a blessing as he set the little boat aflame. It wasn’t an easy sight to forget. The nightmares never left, never stopped coming, never stopped hurting.

They only slowed, but they _never_ stopped. Lancelot was gone. He’d been gone for a long time.

Except, he isn’t gone.

Well, obviously, seeing as he’s _here_ and standing in Merlin’s doorway, wearing plaid pajama pants and a blue, woolen jumper and some pretty marvelous bedhead. In his hands is a small, metal box with a handle, painted red with a little white cross on the front. A first aid kit.

A little different than his Camelot days but it… it’s him. Not a vision. Not a shade.

Merlin isn’t sure if there will ever be an end to the surprise guest appearances.

“Merlin?” Lancelot's mouth hangs open, eyes blinking, shoulders tense like he's holding his breath. It seems he’s just as surprised to see Merlin as Merlin is to see him.

“Oh my god,” Merlin steps forward, throws his arms around one of his oldest friends. 

He hears a muffled _thud_ and looks down to see that Lance has dropped his first aid kit on the carpet, he’s so surprised. Merlin, of course, has a million questions.

The first one that comes to mind is, “Um, would you like to come in for tea? Lord-- oh my god. Oh my god, okay. Just come in." He releases Lance from the tight embrace and gestures shakily into the flat. "Please come in.”

Lance obliges immediately as Merlin releases him. He steps into the flat, running a bewildered hand through already messy hair before doubling back to pick up the first aid kit, fumbling a bit with it. He keeps looking back to Merlin as he does, like if he looks away for too long he'll disappear.

“When did - how did you…?” Merlin starts to ask, then bites his tongue. No, questions later. He needs to wrap his head around the reality first, then he can ask questions all he likes. He’s sure Lance has questions of his own.

“I got a call from this apartment specifically," Lance says numbly, jerking the box in his hand a little to make a point. "Something about someone slicing their finger on a paring knife…" he looks at Merlin and down to his hands, frowning. "I’m uh, assuming you’re all right then?”

Merlin wonders if he’s going to have an asthma attack, he feels like perhaps he isn’t receiving enough air to his brain. Is Lancelot really standing right in front of him in his pajamas, or is he still asleep?

At the very least, it’d be a nice break from the nightmares.

“More or less, yeah,” Merlin just about trips over his words. _Is_ he all right? He doesn’t know, but he’ll go with _yes_ for now. “Fantastic, actually."

"You didn't make the call?"

Merlin shrugs, truly not knowing anyone in the building who would mix up the flat numbers. "Must have been a mistake.”

Lance grins, shaking his head in disbelief. He looks worn out, but his eyes are bright. “A very lucky mistake, then." Then he chuckles, because why not, right? It's three in the morning and they're both standing here in their pajamas, one holding a first aid kit while the other looks on, a reunion after a wait of nearly fourteen hundred years that's led up to this moment. Merlin may have already gone through similar scenarios with Mordred and Gwaine, but that doesn't mean he's suddenly used to it.

"Fate must have wanted us to meet if one little phone call brought me right to your apartment," he wonders with a laugh, "That or a brilliant stroke of luck.”

Merlin laughs, because he can’t believe it. He laughs one of those laughs you get when you’re letting out a breath of relief or when you’ve just received some good news and feel the need to celebrate. “I don’t believe in luck,” he says. “Fate, on the other hand....”

Grinning, Lance slaps Merlin amicably on the shoulder and laughs, too. "How are you?" he asks. His eyes are sincere and warm as ever. There's so much packed into those three words. How are you but also How are you _really?_ How is this possible? Is this real?

"Doing all right," Merlin says with a grin that's impossibly huge. "Despite the circumstances, that is."

A cough sounds from the kitchen and Lance's eyes follow the noise, searching until they fall on Mordred, still leaning the top half of his body over his chair to see into the living room.

“Sorry,” Lance says. “Didn’t realize there was someone else here.” He gives a little wave in the direction of the kitchen.

“Hmm?” Merlin turns around.

Suddenly the relief ebbs away. He’d forgotten about Mordred.

Mordred’s eyebrows shoot up when he catches Lance waving at him, like he’s saying, _W_ _ho, me? You’re waving at me?_ He still hasn’t paid a speck of attention to the hot tea spilled all over his shirt.

Of course, one must remember that Lancelot was long gone before the days of Mordred, of Mordred’s welcome to Camelot as an adult, and his short-lived knighthood.

Mordred had met Lancelot briefly, when he was still a child, but Lancelot wouldn’t recognize him now. Only Mordred has shown any signs of recognition.

Nor would Lance know about Mordred’s ultimate betrayal. This is nothing like when Gwaine came back.

Somehow, this is even worse.

Lancelot has no idea. Does Merlin tell him? Gods, does Merlin tell Lance _any_ of it? Someone might very well be killed in his flat before the night is out, after all.

Before Merlin can say anything in reply, Mordred rises from his chair in the kitchenette and crosses the border where kitchen tile meets shag carpet.

“Care to introduce me, Merlin?” Lance murmurs, eyeing Merlin with a small smile. Merlin tries to force one of his own, but he doesn’t feel anything, and tries to gather his thoughts as Lance sets down the rather hefty first aid kit on the coffee table.

 

******

 

“You say you’ve done all you could to prove you’re sorry for what you did,” Lance murmurs. “It’s been over a thousand years… And of course, if Merlin trusts you, well then.” He nods at Merlin, who presses his lips in a thin line that could just pass for a smile. “I suppose I trust you as well.”

“Appreciate it, mate,” Mordred says with a little smile. He dimples when he catches Merlin scowling at him. “What?” He shrugs. “Nicest 'Hello' I’ve received in quite some time, have to say.”

The kitchen is warm and the kettle is still hot, and three painted mugs are set out on the table. Merlin's still nursing his earl grey, but Mordred's refilled his (and also changed his shirt, thankfully). Lancelot's set aside the first aid kit and now sits along with the others at the table, looking comfortable in his jumper and flannel, his mug in his hands. It's a scene that might appear cozy and entirely domestic, a friendly chat over tea with old friends at a first glance, but it's so much more. It's so much bigger, frighteningly bigger.

“Count yourself lucky,” mutters Merlin. He sips at his tea and huffs like a grumpy old man. He _is_ a grumpy old man and he has every damn right to be peeved, for godssake.

“Arthur isn’t too far behind for sure,” Lancelot whispers, blowing on his tea. “He can’t be, can he.” The words feel solid, landing without any hesitation or doubt. Lancelot had always been good with boosting morale, keeping it positive.... always sounded so _confident_ about everything.

Lancelot.... he always had his head securely on his shoulders and he was _always_ the one to keep a cool head when things went south.

Merlin thanks his lucky stars for that one.

Lancelot wasn’t there when Mordred betrayed them, but ultimately, he’s still proven to be the most forgiving.

Of course, Lancelot wasn’t there when Arthur was declared dead, back in the royal court. He wasn’t there when only the few remaining knights of Camelot stood in mourning, not only for their fallen king but for the their lost brothers-in-arms. And Lancelot obviously hadn’t been at the battle, hadn’t seen Arthur wounded, hadn’t watched him fall. He hadn’t seen what Merlin had seen.

He’s experiencing things very differently than how Merlin and Gwaine and, hell, even Mordred are experiencing it.

And bless him, he’s so forgiving. Trusting. Of course he is, because he's Lancelot and always has been.  

“And you’re telling me Gwaine is back, too?” Lance asks, looking at Merlin with a smile. He looks excited, in a reserved sort of way. Almost like he already knew.

“Shit,” Merlin swears, remembering. “I’ve got to call Gwaine.”

He gets up from his chair with a scrape against the tiles and immediately heads for the landline, before remembering that Gwaine doesn’t have that number programmed into his cell, he just has Merlin’s mobile and won't recognize the landline number. Muttering and cursing all the way, Merlin makes a run to his room and leaves Lancelot and Mordred to have a chat. Or sit in awkward silence. Whichever tickles their fancy, Merlin couldn’t care less at the moment.

Safe in the quiet non-chaos of his bedroom, Merlin beelines for his bedside table where his mobile sits expectantly. He grabs it, and dials up Gwaine.

It takes four rings. Four stretched out, excruciating rings.

“You need to get over here,” he says as soon as Gwaine picks up on the final ring.

“It’s three in the bloody morning, you _arse_.” The voice on the other end is gravelly. Gwaine’s probably not even entirely awake. God knows he’s got experience from talking himself through even the worst of his hangovers. “Love you and everything, mate, but you’re pushing it.”

“Gwaine, shut the hell up for a minute and listen to me.”

“The _fuck_ you talking to me like that for-?”

“You need to get over here _right_ now _.”_

Merlin’s tone must have Gwaine worried, which isn’t really Merlin’s intention but at least he has Gwaine’s full, undivided attention now. “What’s going on?” he asks, giving a small cough to clear his throat. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, yes. I’m fine. We’re fine.” Merlin sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. He hears Lancelot laugh at something from down the hall. ”It’s… Gwaine, it’s happening..”

“The hell you mean, ' _it?_ '”

“It’s Lancelot.”

A pause, and then,

“Fuck. I’m on my way.”

Merlin hears the sound of covers being flung around, and then a worrying _thunk!_ It’s followed shortly by a string of swear words that would send even Merlin blushing, if the occasion wasn’t so - well, bizarre. _“Bloody fuckin’ desk - don’t even use the fucker anyway, Jesus."_ Gwaine must’ve stubbed his toe or something.

Merlin huffs a laugh into the receiver. Why is he laughing? Hell if he knows. How else should he respond? How does he  _process_ what he’s doing here, standing in his room with a phone receiver pressed to his ear and a dead man alive just down the corridor.

He turns around, straining his ears. Yes, Lancelot is still there. He can hear the sound of goodnatured chatter leaking in from the kitchen. This is all real, and it's wonderful.

Gwaine suddenly speaks up from his end again to add, “Don’t you bloody move before I get there.”

Then he hangs up with a slam of the receiver.

Merlin sets the phone down and returns to the kitchen, where the other two have gone perfectly silent.

Lancelot is turned around in his chair, and he and Mordred both look just as flummoxed as Merlin feels.

"Gwaine is coming over."

"Goody," Mordred mutters. Merlin flashes him a warning look and points an accusing finger.

"You'd better behave yourself, you hear me?"

"Yes, mum."

"All  _right,"_ Lance cuts in, the only levelheaded one in the room, apparently. "Perhaps it's best if you both behave yourselves. _Both_ of you." He gives Merlin a knowing look, a small quirk of his eyebrow as he raises his mug to his lips. "Do it for your friends, yeah?"

Properly sheepish, Mordred and Merlin both agree to behave themselves. Or at least, they'll do their best.

 

******

 

It's not like there's an elephant in the room. But to be honest, having Gwaine and Mordred in the same room might be worse than having a live elephant come stampeding through a London flat in the middle of the night.

“So…” Lancelot murmurs, his tea long forgotten on the kitchen table. He surveys Mordred with a pensive (or possibly judging?) look on his face.

 

The reunion between Lancelot and Gwaine had been heavy with bear hugs and back slapping, but Merlin had drawn the line at making a toast with alcohol, and in lieu of that had offered to make tea. After all, it _was_ three in the morning. Now was not the time to get bladdered in a shitty retro apartment in London (or maybe it was?) Whichever it was, Merlin had to draw the line somewhere. Toasts could wait.

What they needed to do was talk.

 

Now, Gwaine sits in an uncomfortable silence next to Lancelot - across from Merlin. He’d made a pointed effort to _not_ sit next to Mordred.

Mordred swallows, waiting for Lance’s verdict.

“So?” he says, so quiet that he might not have meant for Lance to hear at all.

The legend of Sir Lancelot is no secret, and Mordred hasn’t been living under a rock these past few reincarnations. He knows the history - or at least, he knows the basics. If anything, he certainly knows not to get on the man’s bad side, be you a mortal or sorcerer or anything else.

“I’ve read about you,” says Lance.

“Wh- you have?” Mordred gapes. That was probably the last thing he’d expected to hear. “About me? What’ve you read?”

“Well, I’d already discovered the... cause of Arthur’s demise quite a while ago.” Lancelot shrugs. Mordred grimaces. “Read about how you were a Druid and a sorcerer. And how you joined up with Morgana.”

Merlin has to hand it to Lance, the man is doing a much better job of handling Mordred than… others. “About a hundred years ago I came back. London. I was an army medic.”

Naturally. Merlin would have expected nothing less.

“And was that the only time you ever came back?” Gwaine asks, cutting in with a bewildered frown. “Surely you must’ve come back more than once…?”

“If I did, I don’t remember,” Lance admits. There are dark circles under his eyes and it’s clear he’s a little more than tired. He’s _exhausted_. And not the kind of exhausted that a few extra hours of sleep can fix…. Lance is a different man than the one he was fourteen hundred years ago.

Like Merlin and Gwaine and Mordred, he’s seen things. Death and worse, and even worse still.

“But when the memories returned from my past life, around the time I was twenty years old and already working as a medic, I knew,” he taps a finger on the kitchen table, solid and sure, “I knew I had to find out as much information as possible about what happened. What happened to Arthur and to Camelot.” He inhales slowly, then lets it out as he grips the mug more firmly, although he doesn’t drink the tea still sloshing around in there. “At first I thought I must’ve just been remembering an old dream from a long time ago or something, but when the memories continued to come and things started to click… well, it had to be real.” His finger taps idly against his mostly-full mug of Irish Breakfast with heavy creamer. It’ll be cold by now. “Right?”

He looks to Merlin, maybe for confirmation that he’s real and that Lancelot isn’t going insane. After all, most people probably would have ignored a few strange dreams here and there. Brushed off a few odd memories as little more than a dream- sought help, maybe, through counseling or yoga or something useless like that.

Merlin had made the tea about two hours ago, when the three sat down and told their respective stories. Some tight jaws and cold looks had been exchanged -- at first -- but nothing a hot mug of tea couldn’t at least numb a little.

Mordred shifts in his chair.

The sky outside the window is a little less black and a little more grey. The sun will be rising, soon.

Not for the first time, Gwaine breaks the silence to ask, “So… what happens now?”

As it turns out, none of the four know what to do with themselves, now that they’ve been reunited. They’re all just kind of sitting there in the kitchen like it’s an awkward family dinner- only, it’s five in the morning and the kids of the family are actually two grown men named Gwaine and Mordred. And the tired parents (i.e. Merlin and Lancelot) want nothing to do with their children’s squabbles.

It takes a little longer before yet another argument simmers down into something tolerable. A back-and-forth that Merlin can deal with. “Fuck you, you curly-haired prick.” “‘Least I didn’t fuck the first sorceress I laid eyes on.” “I didn’t _know_ Niviane was a sorceress, Jesus.”

It should be mentioned that Mordred _had_ actually met Niviane, years ago in another life. He’d been taken with her (because… of course?) but apparently the feeling wasn’t mutual. They’d parted ways with Mordred feeling more than a little bitter.

The bickering is tedious and Merlin knows it’s best to leave the two to “talk” until things have settled. Meanwhile, Lancelot exchanges a shaky look with Merlin, eyebrows raised. It’s an unspoken conversation between the two of them. _Should I try to jump in?   They could go on for ages if we leave them like this.    No?    All right…._

“We have to look for the others,” Gwaine says, drawing their attention back in.

“Easier said than done,” Mordred rebuts immediately. It’s met with a glare.

“Others,” Merlin repeats.

“Yeah,” says Gwaine, “You know, Elyan and Leon and Percival. If the four of us are here, then the others can’t be far, right? And Arthur-”

“They could be anywhere,” Merlin interrupts with a curt shake of his head. His voice is clipped, eyes dark. “I think if we’re all meant to be together as a group, they’ll come to us. I think…” he sighs. “I think we’ll just have to wait and find them when they want to be found.”

“And Arthur?”

“The same stands for him.”

 

And that’s the final decision, apparently.

 

******

 

Merlin isn’t really sure what to do.

He wakes up that morning alone in bed to sunshine brighter than the usual London cloudiness and wonders how much longer he’ll have to wait. Then, just like every other morning, he forces himself to get changed, eat something, and then considers making plans to see about all of them meeting up again at some point this week. Really, one night is _not_ enough to catch up on fourteen centuries missed.

Lance had gone back to his flat a little after five, leaving Gwaine to leave after an awkward goodbye, still refusing to look Mordred in the eye or just generally acknowledge his presence. Then he was gone for the night, too. From there, the executive decision was made by Merlin that he go to bed, and that Mordred should do the same.

He doesn't know why he wakes up so early. It's barely half eight, meaning he only got a little over three hours of sleep. Mind, he's well past tired.

He calls in sick to work. Hey, all he does at the bank is take phone calls from angry people complaining about their cards getting declined (after stupidly overspending) and filing away any of said complaints. The bank probably isn’t going to miss him anyway.

He doesn’t call Max. Leaves his mobile on silent and can’t find it in himself to dial up Lance or Gwaine again so soon. They probably need space, and time. To think. God knows Merlin does.

He paces the flat until his steps have left an imprint in the shag rug; he heats and reheats the kettle so many times that the bottom is blackened and can no longer be cleaned with any amount of scrubbing with the steel wool from beneath the sink, and for the first time in months he actually uses magic to clean something.

He gives up on cleaning, shuffles into the sitting room and switches on the telly to flip through channels at random, finally settling for the news.

Sighing, Merlin lets himself flop down onto the sofa just as Mordred walks in.

_“-appears the premature planetary alignment predicted by the British Space Agency only a few days ago took place at exactly midnight last night, even earlier than anticipated…”_

Merlin’s ears perk up as the brunette newscaster with a frizzy blowout continues to broadcast.

“What’s for brea-”

“Shh!” Merlin waves off Mordred’s half-baked question and leans forward to hear the newscaster better.

“Geez,” Mordred grumbles, rubbing his eyes. His voice is only half there, still just waking up. “Whass your issue-”

“ _Shh!!_ ” Merlin hisses again, motioning towards the screen of the television.

Mordred stops in the middle of rubbing his eyes.

_“In addition to this unforeseen phenomenon, we’ve received reports of meteor showers all over the South of England in just the past few hours. According to eyewitness accounts, they occurred throughout the night, falling heaviest just outside of Bodmin Moor, Cornwall.”_

Merlin sits up ramrod straight, eyes huge.

Mordred catches his eye for a split second, trying to ask him _what his deal is_ without actually saying a word. Because God only knows Merlin will _shush_ him again. He finally resigns to sit down on the other side of the sofa, keeping a bit of distance between himself and the other man.

_“-one eyewitness claims to have spotted a strange gathering in Bodmin last night as well, out on the moors. A few of the locals claim it was just a passing through of stargazers, but a singular account says they may have been part of a cult, all covered in cloaks, chanting to the heavens like a group of religious fanatics.”_

“The hell?” Mordred mutters. Merlin gives him a _look,_ which gets the point across well enough. Mordred reluctantly shuts up again, and together the two of them continue to listen to the live broadcast.

_“From the reports, this group spoke to no one, except to speak with the one eyewitness who could not be present for an on-camera interview.”_

“Naturally,” Merlin says, annoyed. The _one_ person who may have actually _seen_ something, and they can’t be identified at all.

_“As the witness said on record, a man in a dark cloak stopped him on the side of the road as he was heading home after visiting a relative, and said to him, ‘The coming of the king is near. Be prepared.’ The witness refused to say more, as he left long before any reporters could arrive at the scene, at which time the odd group was nowhere to be found.”_

“What-”

“-It can’t be…” Merlin stares at the screen. And stares.

At the same as Mordred looks around at Merlin, Merlin turns to look back at him.

A question hangs in the space - silent except for the suddenly indecipherable chatter of the newscaster.

_“Other information detailing the events cannot be given at this time. Stay tuned, and we’ll be right back with the weather. More information about the meteor showers, tonight at seven. I’m Helen Willetts, and this is BBC with the weather.”_

Merlin can’t hear the rest. Doesn’t pay attention to the sound byte that signals the end of the news segment before going to commercial. Numbly lifting the remote in his hand, he switches off the telly and the screen blacks out with the faintest _crackle_ of static.

Mordred looks at Merlin, sitting nearly as straight as he is. “Cloaks…” he murmurs, tapping a hand to his thigh distractedly, racking his brain. “You think it was a warning?”

“I…” Merlin can’t think of one thing that might be the right answer.

Mordred grabs the remote before Merlin can stop him and switches the telly back on. “Breaking news, breaking news,” he mutters, flipping through a few more channels. “Fucking - how many weather channels are there?” he presses the **up** arrow as he goes through channels faster than Merlin has eyes for.

“Aha!”

He settles on the action news channel.

Mishal Husain is just wrapping up her own segment about the meteor showers.

_“Luckily no one was close enough to the showers to be injured, although the showers certainly occurred close enough to Bodmin to warrant some unease. Next up, technology’s corporate giant Knights Corp may be taking on a new director. Arthur Williams, the youngest head of security for such a large corporation in England, may be next in line for the proverbial throne. But was his accident that landed him in Saint Mary’s hospital just yesterday a sign that perhaps this is not the job for him?”_

As she talks, a grainy picture fills the screen: an ambulance, and two men carrying out a stretcher. On the stretcher is a man maybe in his late twenties or early thirties. His face is difficult to make out. But Merlin knows.

 

He knows.

 

“It’s…”

“You don’t think…?”

They both bolt up from the couch.

“Do you know where saint Mary’s is?” Mordred asks quickly, looking around for his shoes.

Merlin makes a noise that could pass for the equivalent of “ _N_ _o shit, Sherlock,_ ” while looking around for his own.

They both end up with the wrong pair, before switching them in a rush. Mordred scrambles for his coat and trips over his own feet to get to the door.

“Wait.”

Mordred turns to look back over his shoulder at Merlin.

Merlin says something he never thought he would say to anyone, let alone Mordred:

“Here, take the keys.”

He cringes inwardly and tosses his set of keys across the room, where Mordred catches them with a jangle. "...Wha'?" He stares down at the keys in his hand, baffled at first.

“I’ll be right behind, just have to grab something.”

Mordred still looks unsure.

" _Go,_ dammit!"

With a last look over his shoulder - maybe hoping Mordred doesn’t suddenly turn evil and steal his beloved car - Merlin makes a mad dash for his bedroom. Mordred takes that as the permission to make his own dash for the Beetle parked outside, two floors down. He’s still in his pajamas, but at this point that’s the least of his worries.

Merlin flings open the door to his room. The door makes a loud _thwap_ against the wall. He threw it open a little harder than he’d meant to.

The silence is eerie.

He can hear the blood pumping away in his ears.

How is the world not so much louder right now? Everything feels too slow, not rushed enough, he’s in a rush but he can’t get his legs to move fast enough - can’t get his brain to work quickly enough. Does no one think? Is the sun exploding or is it just the rush of blood in his ears? Can _nobody_ put the pieces together?

 

Of course not. Come on, nobody ever pays attention to this sort of thing. The world has become much too fast-paced to give a damn. Who would care? Who would _know?_

 

God, Merlin cares. He cares so much that sometimes it scares him. But the fact that he still cares has been one of the few things keeping him alive.

Opening one of the drawers to his desk, he takes out the little box he’d so carefully packed away when he first moved in. He’s only started carrying the box with him in the past sixty-odd years, and its contents are too precious for prying eyes.

He pockets the box, and runs back out of the room, straight out the front door without even thinking to lock it because _fuck_ it, it’s today.

There’s no way it couldn’t be.   

Outside, the old Beetle revs to life and so does Merlin’s suddenly impatient old heart.

 


End file.
